


The Burden of Your Gratitude

by Maldoror_Chant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, But my romances include violence swearing and swashbuckling action, Castiel POV, Castiel is Other, Fallen Angel Castiel, Fantasy AU, It's really just an excuse for writing a nice Dean/Cas romance, King Dean Winchester, M/M, Middle Ages setting but with loosely canon compliant elements, Mutual Pining, Realistic fairytale because this is a thing in my universe, Though maybe it's more of a fairytale takedown, Unreliable Narrator, Yes I can be romantic at times, clueless narrator, so contains magic as well as demons and angels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28174443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maldoror_Chant/pseuds/Maldoror_Chant
Summary: So, it turns out that saving the king’s life during a battle is a move straight out of a classic ballad. No, seriously. Fairytales, legends and romances too, it's grist for all their mills. This makes no sense to Castiel, but as a fallen angel who’s only been human for a few days, everything about these mortals and their 'romance' is perplexing.Fortunately king Dean does not know it was Castiel who saved his life, and the latter intends to keep it that way. The idea of a one-sided bond of gratitude between them is… unappealing. He prefers his sacrifice to remain unrequited. Dean’s still searching for his savior, and hell, the whole kingdom believes this person is his predestined love interest, but that’s not an issue. It’s not like someone else is going to pop out of the woodwork to claim responsibility for Castiel’s good deed.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 128
Kudos: 215





	1. Falling From Grace, Landing in a Mess

**Author's Note:**

> Joyful hodgepodge mess of early middle ages slash fantasy universe, so the Pope and the Holy Roman Empire coexist with a made-up kingdom of Lawrence, there's angels, demons and magic alongside Jerusalem and the Crusaders - you want it, you got it, just toss it in the blender. 
> 
> There's world building and plot and stuff, but this story is 90% about the romance. It's got a surprising amount of Angry!Cas in it for a romance (I blame 2020), but yes, it is a romance. Enjoy ~

Castiel falls from Heaven on a tuesday. 

An angel’s fall from grace used to be a noteworthy event once upon a time. ‘Apocalypse redux’ levels of noteworthy; shower of stars, souls rising from the grave, earthquakes, plagues and so on. Castiel’s departure, by contrast, barely causes a stir. Heaven is so bereft of personnel at present, it’s hard to make a big production out of it, or maybe it’s just a sign of the times. Forget biblical days, or even the New Testament; history has marched on. The year is 1226 Anno Domini (or thereabouts, humans are still arguing over their calendar as with so many other things), a Tuesday as we’ve established, and Castiel has just said, “That’s it, I’m done,” as he heads out the door.

His remaining brethren pretend not to notice, as if acknowledging his departure might cause their own precarious perch in Heaven to teeter. Nobody tries to stop him. Anyone he could be said to have been close to once, Anael, Balthazar, Hannah, they all died fighting Lucifer long ago, nobody cares that much about him at this point. Certainly not God. Their Father has been gone for eons, bequeathing himself and his last precious attention to humanity rather than to his first children. He didn’t even bother giving the angels any orders as he walked out on them, only an injunction not to interfere directly with the nascent species that was replacing them. 

In hindsight, it’s not surprising Lucifer and his cronies got into a bit of a snit, but the majority of angels, Castiel included, decided that God’s last directive meant they had to protect the fledgling barely-sentient creatures, leading them to civilization and salvation, and up until today Castiel never flinched. Castiel has always been the textbook definition of a good soldier. He never questioned their Father’s eon-long absence. He battled Lucifer and his demons alongside Michael and the Host, and he continued fighting after all the archangels annihilated each other. He mourned his friends but did not protest their sacrifice. He has faithfully protected the human race for centuries from the shadows of anonymity which barely make room for legends of angels anymore, and he never made any snide remarks about how these precious apes their Father loved so much spend all their time thumping each other, to the point that the ingress of demons barely causes a blip in the casualty rate anymore. 

So what, you ask, caused him to fall? That’s a good question. All his brothers are caught flatfooted, Jonas muttering “It’s always the quiet ones,” when Castiel is almost out of earshot past the pearly gates. What startles the angels is that they are in the midst of congratulating themselves on an easy win for once. This time last week, they’d all been sitting around on their wings wondering how their dwindling numbers could defeat a demon of Alastair’s calibre without putting their full arsenal of miracles and holy might on display, and lo and behold the humans did the job for them. Humanity has come a long way from their stumbling infancy; they now have magic, this nascent ‘technology’ they’re proud of, organization, a hierarchy of kings and soldiers, cities and castles, spies and mages. Alastair did a lot of harm, granted, and a good portion of his army is still out there, but nevertheless, today is a win!

The tone of fatuous self-congratulations on not having done anything is the spark that ignited Castiel’s gunpowder, so to speak (gunpowder is another newfangled invention humans have come up with.)

Congratulate themselves? Why?! They’d not contributed to Alastair’s defeat. Their Father’s second born has grown up and is striking out on its own, leaving the angels to flap around in increasing redundancy, _pretending_ that protecting humanity is their father’s last order, even though he hadn’t bothered making it one - and it’s to be noted that orders are all he’s ever given them, no direction, no love, no hope in the future - no _future_ , just ever present unchanging vigilance over a world that no longer needs them or contains anything they could call relevant to themselves and all their sacrifices and losses and they are supposed to be _CHEERING this development as if they had in anyway contributed?!_

That’s it. I’m done.

...Castiel is a good soldier, as mentioned. He’s the opposite of a bad angel; the rebels all fell with Lucifer, the cowards and the delinquents skedaddled when the going got tough in the eons of war that followed. No, Castiel stayed through all of that. Castiel is a rock, a rampart, a mountain, calm, strong and placid. But deep in the depths of Mount Castiel is a heart that beats, that feels and writhes under neglect, injustice and love imposed upon, and when the pressure grows too strong, the placid mountain becomes a volcano.

It’s no wonder no one tries to stop him from leaving. Theoretically the garrison is supposed to hunt down fallen angels, but they understand that Castiel is not the type to create an army of demons or anything dramatic. So everyone is just going to pretend he’s gone for a long walk to cool his head until his Grace runs out in a few hundred years, and he either crawls back to Heaven to recharge (nobody believes this will actually happen because Mount Castiel is also very stubborn) or he turns mortal and dies, and they’ll never talk about him again.

Castiel is quite content with that.

He flits around the planet a few times, relishing the indescribable breath of freedom he’s not tasted since-... ever, really. He’s free to go wherever he wants and do what he wills. Other fallen angels before him let that freedom go to their heads and did some pretty silly things: founded new religions, bossed humans around, smote everything they disapproved of, the like, but Castiel doesn’t see the appeal. He has no intention of violating heavenly decree, and he doesn’t feel like getting hunted down and killed by his brethren for doing so either. He now has a finite lifespan, a few centuries at most, and this is as refreshing and precious to him as the freedom to fly through crisp mountain air without pressing duties. He has _time_ now, a limited amount, true, but all of it his own. What does he want to do with it?

He’s got many options, but he already knows deep down where he’s going. He gravitates towards the kingdom of Lawrence less than an hour after his Fall. There is someone here he wants to see. 

The capital city has a conjoined twin made of tents and semi-permanent encampments attached to its western flank. Many folk, nobles, soldiers and commoners alike, have rallied to this small backwater kingdom in the past few years to oppose the incursions of Alastair’s hordes from the wild lands of the east. There’s even a contingent of knight templars sent by the current Pope, with a bunch of crusaders lending cavalry support; the threat of Alastair’s horde was declared anathema back in 1219 AD and triggered the start of several holy wars. Today the assembled human armies have fallen back to Lawrence, and the place is hopping with people, which is a minor hindrance. Castiel has every intention of obeying his Father’s laws to the end, so he can’t miraculously appear in the heart of the fortress atop the hill dominating the capital. Instead he picks a discreet landing spot behind a copse of trees in a deserted area outside the city where no tents or allies have gathered. The northern gate is within sight. Castiel makes his way over. 

It’s mid-morning in the month of May in this hemisphere. Flies buzz around a cart of cabbages arriving late for market while their owner argues with a guard. Castiel walks on by, but is stopped by a second armed man.

“Hold up, where do you think you’re going?”

Castiel glances indifferently at the halberd blocking his advance. “To see the king.”

The answer seems to surprise the armed man. “The king?”

“Yes. His name is Dean,” Castiel adds. “Dean Winchester. Do you know him?”

“Do I- what the- of course I bloody know him! You thinks I don’t know who I took the coin from?”

Castiel focuses more attention on the man, the latter transitioning from minor impediment to source of information. “I am here to see him. How do I do that?”

The guard looks Castiel over. He seems confused. Castiel materialized wearing the long white robes he used last time he was visible to a mortal.... which was several Books of various Prophets ago, he now remembers; a blink of time in his lifespan, but for mortals it’s a chunk of centuries that merits the adjective ‘historical’. Castiel watches over humans every day from on high, he knows their current language, their habits, some of their strange customs, but as for actual interaction, he’s not done that for a very long time. From the way the guard is staring at him like a curiosity rather than answering his question, he’s not doing too well.

“You a priest?” the guard finally hazards, giving Castiel’s floor-length white robe another hard look.

“No.”

“...A jester?”

“No.”

Castiel’s steady gaze seems to unnerve the guard, even though the angel is not doing anything threatening. On the contrary, he’s standing quite close and looking the man right in the eye to show his honesty and good intentions. The guard hedges back a bit and glances appealingly at his colleague, but the latter is deeply engrossed in cabbage matters all of a sudden and does not look willing to help.

“What do you want with the king?”

Castiel pauses. He hasn’t actually thought the matter through that far. Neither is he used to being questioned on his actions or motivations. 

“I want to see him. He’s the one who killed Alastair, and he’s fighting the remnants of the demon hordes. He must be extraordinary.” He looks to the guard for confirmation, but though the man has said just one minute ago that he knows Dean Winchester, he does not leap to confirm or deny that statement. Castiel thinks a bit, then adds: “His cause is righteous. I followed the same one for eons. I think I can be of service to him.” Even without using a battery of miracles that would betray his true nature. He can still use his powers of course, especially when confronting the unnatural abominations from the Pit, but he has to stay discreet and give humans no proof of the divine. That shouldn’t be too hard; they are not, as a lot, very perceptive creatures. They can only see in three dimensions to start with...

The guard’s confused air clears up. “Oh, I gotcha, I gotcha. You wants to take the coin too. We got loads like you. From all the weirder parts of the land, they come, god’s tears, places I never even heard of, they come to fight the good fight. We won’t turn away a big strapping lad like you, that’s for sure, even in a dress.” The other guard stifles a snicker and pokes a cabbage. 

The guard fishes around in the nearby guardhouse and comes back bearing two objects. The first is a silver coin soused in holy water which he indicates, with the air of one fulfilling a boring formality, that Castiel should grasp. Castiel does so and does not burst into flames, wince or otherwise react negatively (he keeps to himself the observation that the sanctity of the holy water is in fact wearing off and will soon have to be re-blessed.) 

Not seeming surprised by Castiel’s lack of demoniac energy or monstrous origins, the guard hands him the second object. “Here. You takes this wooden token, see, it proves you passed muster here, keep it with you and you shows it to anyone who asks or you’ll be clapped in stocks. We keep the city tight these days, we has infiltrators and such comin’ in otherwise. You goes straight down this road, turn a right at the market, then go up the hill to that big building past the fortifications. Asks for the recruiter’s station. You gives him this token and say you want the coin. They’ll getcha signed up in no time.”

Castiel wants to see the king, not get a coin, but the guard seems very sure of himself, and what does Castiel know of human formalities? If a coin is required in order to see Dean Winchester, then a coin Castiel will obtain. He walks away from a lively murmur of discussion and speculation as to his origins between the two guards and the cabbage seller, and heads in the direction indicated.

The streets are festive. Barefooted children run around waving pretend swords, there are as many banners and bunting as laundry hanging across the alleys, and people emptying chamber pots out the window do so with a certain vim and vigor to the gesture, and even have the good natured reflex to check if anyone’s beneath them first, a courtesy they normally forgo according to Castiel’s previous observations of current human norms. In short, the whole of Lawrence is in a great mood. Dean Winchester returned to his seat of power yesterday with news of Alastair’s death, and the party is still ongoing. 

Castiel lost his temper with the angels’ celebrations, but he does not begrudge the humans theirs. Every sapient being on this continent has had a lucky escape. Alastair was an anomaly. Over the eons, angels and demons had expended themselves against each other in much the same way fire and water get along, leaving nothing but damp ash behind in the end. It’s been a long time since a beast as powerful and full of sin as Alastair crawled out of the Pit. His death has taken every human from this area out from under a death sentence, and the power vacuum he’s left in the demonic horde’s leadership will give them a reprieve from the fighting. 

Castiel makes his way through packed streets full of humans overindulging in fermented beverages. He wants to go to the castle quickly and get this coin he needs, but he’s stopped by a patrol before he even makes it to the market. They examine his wooden token suspiciously. Other humans in the throng are ogling Castiel’s raiments. Once the patrol lets him go on his way, Castiel takes a minute to detour down an alleyway. When he re-emerges, his white robes have transmogrified. The boots and cotton trousers, belted at knee and waist, are the same many people wear here, his gray tunic reinforced with leather panels matches the guards’, the rough-spun baggy brown surcoat is inspired by the cabbage seller’s. He is neither a priest nor a jester, so he should not dress as such. 

His attempt to pass himself off as a mortal of the current times is a success; he’s no longer stopped by patrols, nobody gives him a second glance, and the man sitting behind the long desk in the recruiter’s station looks positively bored with the heavenly Being before him. The man, ill-shaved and tired, rubs his eyes and says a sentence in a language which the angel, all-knowing that he is, cannot begin to make out.

“What?”

“I says welcometothearmy, birthplace-n’-name, we don’ payinadvance, do yurtime, get ursov’rein.”

Castiel stares at him, nonplussed.

The man looks up from the ledger he’d been scratching in in a dilettante way. He examines Castiel more closely, especially the eyes, then he straightens up a tad.

“You here to join?” 

“I’m here for a coin,” Castiel corrects.

“Ri’, ri’, king’s coin.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Ri’. Birthplace?”

Ah, a metaphysical quandary right out of the gate. On this continent, humans without noble heritage most often identify themselves with a name given by their parents and their place of provenance, but in Castiel’s case the latter is a bit of a theological puzzle at the best of times, not having been born per se, and certainly nowhere this mortal would be equipped to understand.

“Eden,” Castiel extemporizes.

“Never heard of it.” The recruiter’s tone suggests this is a faux-pas on Castiel’s part. “Name?”

“Castiel.”

“Whatcha good at?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You good at anythin’? Other than wieldin’ a pitchfork and buggerin’ sheep?”

“...I’ve never done either of those things. The latter is a sin in the eyes of our Father,” Castiel thinks to inform him. The casual way it was mentioned makes him uncertain the man is aware of it. 

The recruiter rolls his eyes, but then a thought seems to strike him. “You don’t talk like no farmhand, I grantya. You a scholar?”

“Not especially.”

“Oh? You sure? Hey, by chance you wouldn’t be one of them magic users? Because we can always use more of-’

“Absolutely not!” The incensed ruffle of Castiel’s wings in the higher spheres shreds a cobweb and sends dust flying.

The recruiter gives him an owlish look. “Cool yerself, I wus jus’ askin’.”

“Magic is foul, I would never touch it,” Castiel snaps. The very thought of his Grace being compared to that- that parody, that sick twisted perversion-

“Strong words,” says someone off to his right.

Two humans walk through the door to the office. Castiel was listening to their footsteps for the past minute without thinking much of it, there are people moving all over these large barracks.

Castiel’s focus lands on the first man, the one who just spoke. A little taller than Castiel’s current form, taller than Castiel expected (size is tricky to judge for a celestial Being existing in several dimensions), dressed in a tough hauberk covered in a surcoat of rich chestnut-brown cloth. Panels of black velvet sewn onto the skirt, lower arms and chest lend the clothes a touch of luxury, which is solemnized by the embroidered sword and rifle crossed over a field of rye, the Winchester coat of arms. That and a thin gold circlet around his brow are his only outward identifiers, not that Castiel needs those, for this is the man he expressly came to see. Dean Winchester, the human who killed Alastair after years of a difficult campaign and great personal danger. Castiel recognizes him instantly, even though he only saw him for a brief instant and at a very large distance during a skirmish. But the light of Dean’s soul shone bright, it snared his attention and called to him… Castiel came all this way to confirm what that brief glance suggested; that this man with the shining light in his heart, however rough around the edges, is as strong, upright and tough as any angel, a true Righteous Man. Castiel came all this way just to verify this, and now he has, staring enchanted at the quality of the soul before him. Hardship has sharpened the edges of that tenacious light; there’s a faint tarnish there of a dozen minor sins cheerfully embraced; there’s mortality and a hard history and bitterness and dogged faith in the future all blended together, unique and precious. It is beautiful. It seems the guard at the gate was perfectly correct, Castiel’s met Dean - and he doesn't even have the coin yet. 

King Dean is looking Castiel over in much the same way Castiel is looking at him, from top to toe, fetching a pause when their gazes cross. He finally clears his throat. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d be glad to do without magic if we could. Grates my nerves, I admit. But our mages are the backbone of our big offensives, and our healers have saved too many lives to count.”

“It’s usefulness does not remove the stain of its origins,” Castiel answers, pleased to be able to actually interact with this remarkable human. Also, he’s telling the truth and spreading God’s word. “Demons are the creators of all the magic humans possess, its allures compromise the weak of soul. Its use is forbidden by our Father.”

Dean’s eyebrows arch, he doesn't look impressed with Castiel’s faultless logic. “Our father? You a half brother I don’t know about?”

“Our Heavenly Father. Children of Adam, do not turn to mediums or necromancers; do not seek them out, and so make yourselves unclean by them. So says His decree.”

“I see.” Dean half turns his head without breaking eyecontact. “Bobby, we got room in the army for another chaplain?”

Dean’s companion - another soul Castiel recognizes from his surveillance, Sir Robert Singer, Dean’s seneschal - makes a noise like “Harumph.”

“I am not a chaplain.” 

“What are you then?”

Castiel pauses. He can’t say ‘Angel’ without revealing the divine, and besides it’s now inaccurate. ‘Fallen Angel’ is equally indiscreet and has a lot of negative connotations. 

“I’m me.”

“Alright, mister Me, what can-”

“Castiel,” Castiel corrects him. 

“...alright, mister I have no Humor Castiel-”

“Just Castiel,” Castiel assures him kindly.

Dean looks at him closely for a few seconds as if searching for something between Castiel’s eyebrows. Whatever it is he thought was there, he fails to find it, and seems puzzled. Sir Robert covers a derisive snort with a cough.

“Very well, Castiel. You’re not a magic user and you’re not a chaplain, so what can you do?”

“I can fight,” says Castiel after a few seconds of contemplation (it has been several billion years since someone has asked him what he can do; up until now, it’s always been a given.)

“Sword? Arbalest? Musket rifle? Cannoneer?”

“I use this.”

Sir Robert tenses as Castiel’s blade slips into his palm. Dean merely glances down, weighs the weapon with his eyes and then looks Castiel in the face again. 

“Fine, any other weapon than a knife?”

“I’ve never needed anything else,” says Castiel after another moment of reflection, “however I can certainly learn.”

“You got the right attitude at least.” The smile this earns him is like a heavenly chord ringing out, Castiel almost looks around in bemusement for the origin of this feeling of warmth and light suffusing him. 

Dean is quiet for a moment, then without breaking eye contact, he fishes in a small embroidered satchel tied to his large belt and draws out a coin. 

“Here.” He flips the coin up in the air once, catches it, then sends it spinning in a new arc towards Castiel who catches it neatly. “The king’s coin. Literally in this instance. Take it in exchange for your allegiance, and welcome to the army.”

Castiel examines the small coin solemnly. It is made of gold with a crude picture of Dean stamped on one side. In his peripheral perception, the jaw of the recruitment officer sags. The coins in the box near the ledger are all made of copper. 

Dean waves in that direction. “Sign in the book, or if you ain’t at ease with letters, make your mark. Then have a talk with the recruiter, he’ll sign off with the commander of the watch and get you situated in a regiment. We won’t be moving out all that soon. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the Beast Alastair is dead along with his top officer. I think we can expect a few months of peace before we-”

Someone near the portcullis outside calls out incoherently, sharp and shrill before cutting off in an ugly choking gurgle. 

The humans stand paralyzed, heads up, listening. Castiel, for his part, watches a soul leave a body in the distance and, oh dear, what’s coming does not look good.

Shouts ring out louder and louder, increasingly panicked. A horse screams nearby. A woman screams in a similar manner and abruptly stops, the cessation more chilling than the cry. 

The words ‘under attack’ rise like the tide, carried by waves of different voices. And there’s the smell of course. Sulfur. Olefiant gasses. Rot. Corruption. 

Divine sight picks out the advance of the spreading miasma rising from the cellars of a dozen boarded up houses surrounding the castle. It is oily black at its densest, a plague of pure corruption, but ahead of that noxious pool runs transparent veils of airborne poison, reacting with any liquid it finds to burn human skin, eyes and lungs. The clouds slither and pool along the ground, surging up when they hit an obstacle to kill here or there indiscriminately, leaving the survivors reeling back in horror, fleeing in incomprehension. Anyone knocked over in the stampede screams, seizes up, claws blindly at the empty sky, further spreading panic.

Panic. Despair. Death. And demons.

They come surging over the wall, back trails of smoke like flocks of ill-omened birds. Dozens of them. The castle has defences, but somebody - some human traitor - must have broken the salt-rich pavement lines, scratched away the protective charms. There’s still the spellcrafted shield the mages have cast over the crown of the hill, which Castiel noticed when he was making his way to the castle earlier, but the first wave of attackers are the shock troops, and after a few vicious runs at the magical structure, the latter shatters and lets them through. Weaker minions follow, flaring and sputtering over the walls and heading straight towards all the freshly dead bodies lying around. Somebody on the demon side thought this out carefully. Alastair, this has his mark all over it… He only died a few days ago, and this plan must have been in preparation for weeks; it’s been set in motion without him, possibly under the guidance of one of the more ambitious dauphins who wish to inherit his mantle. Poisonous gasses kill dozens of humans, then demons smoke in to possess the corpses without effort; a recipe for an instant army that mostly bypasses the walls and defence. This is bad. 

Castiel brings his attention back to the recruitment office which has been empty of humans for the past thirty seconds. The recruiter left his book behind. Castiel contemplates it, then he leans forward to find the man’s quill. He signs an approximation of his name in the local language, then adds a tiny rendition of the same in Enochian, which may pass as his ‘mark’. He puts down the quill, closes the book with care, switches his angel blade back to his right hand and heads out the door. 

A possessed corpse staggers by. Castiel stabs the thing in the chest and carries on without a pause, ignoring the gape-mouthed soldiers who had been bracing for the undead creature’s attack.

Out in the courtyard, Castiel slows to a stop and looks around. All three generations of Winchester kings, Henry, John and Dean, decided to spend their wealth on the practical rather than the exotic or the grandiose. The castle is a fortress, a byzantine maze of three-foot stone walls added to by each generation, dotted with choke-points, gates, guard houses and murderholes. It’s rather challenging to navigate if you can’t fly right this minute. Castiel looks around, a little at a loss. He absently swats at a slithering tendril of the poison gas that is trying to waft by him. A flick of wing in the higher spheres sends three demons caterwauling away through the air, to the surprise of the men at arms who’d been holding them back from attacking some helpless castle staff near the kitchen’s outbuildings. 

Hmm.

Castiel glances down at the gold coin in his hand. He turns it to look at Dean’s profile. 

With a flicker of thought, the coin vanishes from his palm to reappear on a gold chain around his neck. But since he’s only just signed the book, he doesn’t yet have a regiment, orders or a notion of who does what here, so his next step as Dean’s brand new soldier is to find his liege and go on from there.

\---

Despite the confusion, the clouds of poison and the demonic attacks, finding Dean isn’t all that hard. He’s left a trail of resistance behind him: rapidly organizing troops, civilians gathered into protective circles surrounded by defences, knight templars protecting priests chanting exorcisms at the top of their lungs, and mages repairing their protective shields. Dean’s path curves from the recruitment office through to the barricade near the main gate, then off to a defensible position in a high courtyard the gas cannot reach, down the stairs towards more dangerous areas where pockets of castle staff might still be alive and need help. Castiel follows, killing whatever demon crosses his path as a matter of course.

Near the northern wall is where the king’s wake changes from organized resistance to a breadcrumb trail of bodies; most of them are the quickly-rotting corpses of once-possessed dead humans, but here and there are members of Dean’s guard. The arrow of violence points to the barricaded entrance of a barbican. There are ten demons there, hammering at the door, while two more try to breach a small high window reinforced with metal bars and boards. Their gestures are frenzied with violence, fury and impatience. They know they’ve failed. They have not taken the castle in their first deadly push, their offensive has not broken the kingdom of Lawrence, they’ve lost many of their numbers already… their last chance at a pyrrhic victory is to take down the king. They’re too maddened or stupid to realize that it’s not the door that’s holding them back, it’s the line of salt behind it. One of them does knock open the wood shutter of the small murderhole and toss something inside, but he cannot follow even in his smoked-out form due to more salt applied there. They all rage around like impotent cats around the mousehole until the last one in line notices Castiel standing right behind him. 

A dozen dead demons later, Castiel kicks down the barbican’s door and enters. 

Annoyingly though, he’s too late. Dean is dead. 

Castiel picks up the smoking spell bomb the demons tossed in and throws it back out the murder hole. A wing flick banishes the poison shrouding the fallen king like a winding sheet. The body is dead already, has been for almost a minute, skin raw, eyes ulcerated and bleeding, lungs clotted with blood, but the soul is still flickering in its setting of flesh for a little while longer. Castiel stops it from slipping away with a hand to Dean’s forehead, and sends a surge of healing grace through the savaged body.

He immediately hits a snag. This is not just a physical injury or normal poison, which Castiel could banish with a thought, this is corruption most foul. Even as he fixes some of the damage, it sticks to the body beneath his hands like tar and undoes the work almost immediately. It takes an actual effort to wrench Dean back to life, and at best Castiel only gets the body minimally functional. Dean gives a gurgling gasp - but forget curing the rest of the damage, Castiel is barely making a difference. 

Cold realisation goes through the angel like a stone sinking into the dark depths of a well. It’s too late. Dean will die unless Castiel goes all in. The only way he can reverse the damage is if he uses all the Grace at his disposal to heal it. 

Castiel is a little lightheaded at the thought. He fell from Heaven a scant two hours ago, and he’s already having to make this kind of choice - he thought it would be decades, centuries before he faced mortality. But it’s not even a question of what he’s going to do. In truth, a part of his dizzied realization boils down to the single thought, ‘if I’d just stayed up there a couple of hours longer to say goodbye or punch Zachariah in the face, then this man would be gone…’ How close he’s come to not knowing this soul. How close. 

There’s no hesitation in the hand Castiel places once again on Dean’s forehead. 

The trickle of healing Grace turns into a stream, then a torrent, then a waterfall endlessly tumbling into the body beneath his hand. At first it makes no headway, Dean’s condition doesn’t change. The poison and corruption are very potent, they can kill even in diluted clouds wafting through large spaces, and Dean received a high dosage concentrated by the barbican’s walls and actually died from it, that is a lot of damage to reverse with the corruption fighting him every step of the way. Too much damage perhaps, but Castiel doesn’t even contemplate the possibility that this is all for naught, that he’ll lose all his Grace and not even save Dean at the end of it. If that happens, so be it, he’ll have at least tried. And for a being who’s lived eons, dying in a few centuries or in fifty years or tomorrow is all pretty much the same. 

Dean’s lungs suddenly seize around a gasp. Then he gives a strangled bloody cough. 

The Grace that seemed to be flowing through him uselessly to start with, like water trying to fill a sieve, is incrementally gathering pace in the healing. The ulcers on his skin pucker inwards, just a bit to start with, then faster and faster until they fade and finally disappear. Dean’s chest heaves under the hand Castiel has moved from his forehead to his heart. The darkness that was smothering his soul light dissipates like mist under sunshine. 

Dean makes a rusty sound like “Guwar?” followed by a noise of pain and another agonizing cough. Castiel sends a flick of Grace to heal the scorched throat. 

His Wings are burning in the higher plane, tilting as they capture and siphon every last ounce of Grace he has at his disposal. Minor miracles follow in its wake: an old oak table sprouts tiny stems and leaves on one of its legs, the corrupted gas turns to ash, coating the floor, the straw spilling from a worn mattress nearby starts to braid itself into complex patterns and the cheap plonk in a nearby flagon turns to fine wine, its container healed of its chips and cracks glinting like crystal from the spillover. A light that has no source a human eye can see knocks around the room and throws huge shadows of wings against the far wall. They strain, slowly fading evanescent into twilight. 

The limits of a Power once infinite are within his sight for the first time in his existence. Castiel examines those limits without fear, measures them against the remaining damage, and finds the result satisfactory. 

It’s working. He’s going to have enough. He can fix this. Dean is going to live.

Dean pulls in a raspy breath, then another, and painfully blinks. Castiel is too busy repairing Dean’s organs following poison and oxygen deprivation, but he should still have enough at the end to heal those pupils and burnt sclera. 

“Wings,” Dean suddenly mumbles, staring somewhere over Castiel’s shoulder.

“Shh.” Castiel focuses on the blood flow to the previously burned lungs. Almost there...

“Wings,” Dean insists like it’s very important. He’s just coming back to full consciousness. Castiel doesn’t even know how Dean has seen the angel’s wings since his eyes are still burned and useless. He must have sensed them as he hovered there between life and death. 

Castiel puts his hand over Dean’s mouth gently, and takes a minute to remove the painful blisters from his lips and fix the eyes. They turn brilliant green again instead of blood-red and suppurating. Pupils blow wide with shock as they stare at the ceiling then flicker shut in pain, as brand new as a baby’s. All his recovered senses, sight, smell, taste and touch, must be reeling from being newly remade, but this cacophony of sensation will soon pass. Almost there…

The only noise in the barbican up to now was the fissioning silence of Grace performing miracles and the small rustling _fflffl_ of the table leg’s leaves growing and sprouting. But as the divine power slowly tapers off and flickers like a candle about to gutter, other noises intrude. There’s a lot of shouting outside. “Hold the line!” someone yells. Another voice Castiel can barely make out is calling Dean’s name frantically. It sounds like the humans are rallying and are trying to push the demons and dead armies back.

The holy light dims and goes out.

Castiel removes his hand from Dean’s mouth. The limb feels odd. Heavy. _Meaty_. 

Mortal.

Oh well, it would have happened sooner or later, Castiel thinks philosophically. There is not an ounce of regret as he looks down at Dean, now peacefully asleep on the flagstone. Only the king’s clothes show the effects of the gas that almost killed him, musty, powdery, scorched in places where the poison reacted with sweat and blood to turn to acid. Castiel clicks his fingers to remake the hauberk and surcoat anew. 

He doesn’t even stir a single broken thread. Oh. Right.

Castiel glances around. Dean chose his refuge well; the barbican of the castle, like many rooms and fortifications, was retrofitted to deal with the supernatural as well as human invaders. Runes are etched in the walls, and large bags of salt are stacked everywhere, one gutted open by an impatient royal dagger and scattered about. There’s also holy water in a bucket, a somewhat disrespectful display which Castiel doesn’t improve on when he uses it to mop away the worst of the ash, blood and mucus from the king’s face, before covering him with a blanket he finds on the camp bed near a table covered in playing cards. Castiel takes a minute to pour a new salt line in front of the door, replacing the one he disrupted by his entrance. Dean slumbers on. Castiel goes to check on him again. He puts his hand on Dean’s cheek… but he can no longer heal the body, sense damage or touch the soul. He can feel the warmth of a normal temperature, though, the ruggedness of unblistered skin that otherwise bothers only occasionally with a barber’s ministrations. Very human, very healthy and normal. 

With a sigh, Castiel tears himself away and gets to his feet. Dean will be alright now, but by the sound of the rising brouhaha outside, there’s still work to be done. Castiel would prefer to stay here and watch Dean recover fully, but it’s his duty to help humans and kill demons, and he’s never been one to shirk. He marches grudgingly towards the door, steps over a couple of bodies, gestures at a demon rushing towards him, smiting the evil creature where it stands-

Oh. _Right._

With an inward sigh, Castiel puts away the now-useless gesture of divine wrath and fills the startled demon full of stab holes instead. There’s still a great deal of physical prowess in the human frame built in Heaven, while traces of his Grace live within the angel blade in his hands, anathema to infernal spawn. He’s far from helpless.

Demon executed, Castiel stomps off to go see what all the shouting is about while keeping an eye out for any sinners who might try to circle around him and further harm Castiel’s new charge. Further along the battlements are the stable yards. There are some thirty or forty demons in one corner and a cohort of humans on the other led by prince Samuel Winchester. Castiel recognizes him from his discreet surveillance of the past few years. The man is a mage, he’s slinging spells right now while also maintaining an impressive defensive shield around his troops. Samuel Winchester is a bit of a conundrum for Castiel; the man has flirted with corruption most of his adult life, and Castiel is not sure he appreciates that, but he cannot fault the prince’s courage, leadership or ability to fry demons by the dozen. With Dean out for the count, Samuel is now the de facto leader of Lawrence’s forces and thus the man Castiel will assist. He marches in that direction, past a horse trough and a couple of empty stables, wondering why the nearest fighters behind Samuel’s protective shield who have spotted him approaching are making large ‘Stay where you are!’ and ‘Don’t come closer!’ gestures at him. 

Castiel stops abruptly and brings a hand to his nose. Whew, what’s that smell?! It stinks like-

Darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter out next Saturday, probably. Happy Holidays everyone, I say out of habit but seriously though, there's nothing happy about it, stay safe, stay home, just put 2020 in the bin already and pretend it never happened.


	2. Magic vs Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel wakes up to find out that a fairytale has taken place without his permission.

Castiel opens his eyes to a ceiling. It’s not a very unusual ceiling; whitewashed plaster over beams, cracks running here and there, a fly bumbling its way across its expanse. It’s a very ordinary ceiling in every way, yet it surprises him since the last thing Castiel remembers rushing towards him was the floor. 

Then there was nothing but darkness.

...Is that what unconsciousness feels like? If it is, Castiel doesn’t think much of it. He’ll try to avoid it in the future.

He sits up abruptly - and almost reacquaints himself with unconsciousness immediately.

Through the black splotches dotting his vision and a racking cough, flashes of the room leap out at him. A young healer is hurrying to his side. Another grabs a mug and flagon from a side table. Rows of occupied beds measure the length of a long room, the whitewashed ceiling extending like a road overhead that Castiel’s somersaulting vision follows until he feels dizzy. Near the door, an older healer and two other people congregating around a bed spin around, one of them is-

Oh, thank their Father, Dean is alright. 

He’s staring at Castiel, startled, and no wonder. Other than Dean, his companion and the three healers, Castiel is the only one moving in the entire room. All other occupants lie motionless in their beds, barely breathing. Castiel, with a flickering remnant of his heavenly vision, senses faint amounts of the miasma clinging to them. No burns or scarring in sight, the healers were able to deal with those physical injuries, but the corruption lurking inside the gas cannot be fought so easily as Castiel knows all too well. To have survived at all, these people must have only inhaled the barest traces, but that’s enough to render them unconscious, souls battling through nightmares, perhaps never to emerge. 

“He’s awake?!” Dean barks at the physiker as they make their way towards Castiel’s bed at a run. “What did you do?! What did you use?”

“Um-” The older healer eyes chalk marks on the headboard of Castiel’s bed. “Um, on this patient I tried the essence of mandragora mixed with jimson weed, and we steeped in the hair of a unicorn, or at least that’s what the folks from Lady Talbot’s emporium assured me it was. But- but we gave the same to these other two men in the next beds over, and they haven’t reacted.” She sounds frustrated; since Saint Thomassina the Mender popularized healing magic under the guidance of Pope Lorenzo IV some two hundred years ago, leechcraft has become the province of the poorest and most desperate, not worthy of a proper healer’s time, and obviously unreliable in her view. 

Dean makes an impatient gesture. “Well, maybe try the essence again, give them a greater dosage. Or - you got anything else from the unicorn that’s not in the form of a pattie?”

“I’ll go see, your majesty.”

“Maybe he got a lesser amount of the poison.” Dean leans forward to look the former angel in the face. “Here, I know you. Castiel, right? The guy who fights with a knife and doesn’t like magic?”

“Yes,” Castiel croaks, and then spits up something quite vile into his mouth. The youngest healer kindly hands him a glass of watered down wine. 

“Doesn’t like magic?” Dean’s companion mutters. Samuel Winchester, also alive and well. He must have won that fight in the stable courtyard without Castiel’s help. 

Dean waves his hand as if shooing away the fly that’s still meandering the ceiling. “We don’t all have to love sorcery, Sammy. Especially when it produces a witch’s brew to drown my castle in death clouds. Castiel, how are you feeling?”

“Bad.”

“Yeah, I bet.” A damp chuckle without much humor escapes the king. “You’ve been lying here unaware for three whole days. Some welcome to Lawrence, huh? In my employ for no more than the length of the shortest psalm, and you get gassed and poisoned.”

“Gassed?” Castiel croaks. “Poisoned?”

“You probably didn’t even realize what was going on at the time.”

Castiel realized full well what was going on at the time, he just didn’t realize that it would apply to him. This mortality thing is going to take some adjustment.

“Well you’re obviously made of a stern fabric,” Dean concludes, slapping Castiel on the shoulder and gentling the gesture at the very last second into a couple of brisk pats instead. “You still want to join my army n’ all now that you’ve seen what we’re up against?” 

It’s phrased like a question, though Castiel isn’t sure why. “I still have your coin,” he points out. The weight of it is around his neck, the metal a small warm spot against the bare skin of his chest beneath the tunic he’s wearing.

“Good man, then. I’ll let you get some rest while I talk to the physicker here.” Dean pats him on the shoulder again and stands, to Castiel’s defuse regret. He can no longer see the light of Dean’s soul except in memory, but even its remembrance keeps him warm and peaceful in the man’s presence. 

So he makes to get out of bed to follow Dean who’s gone to talk to the doctor, and dives right back into unconsciousness again, damn it. 

\---

A beam of sunlight teases the opposite wall. Its progress from the basin of water up to the shelf measures another hour out of the day like a sundial. Castiel lays in bed, fighting sleep. He doesn’t like sleep. It was an unwelcome shock last night to discover that unconsciousness, far from avoidable, will now accompany him for a few hours in every twenty four. The price of mortality. Mortality, Castiel has come to realize, is rife with annoyances that he’s been discovering one after the other since he awoke from his coma yesterday. Like eating. And the _facilities._ Why is it necessary to bother with food if it’s all going to come squirting out the other end anyway? And sleep - sleep! Whose bright idea was it to give humans a finite lifespan and then snidely rob them of a third of it?! Castiel glares at the sunbeam and ruminates on his Father’s idea of a bad jest. 

“Oh, look, there he is! He’s visiting early today.”

The sunbeam is broken by the shadow of a healer apprentice hurrying to rejoin three others at the mezzanine beyond the window aperture of his room. Castiel has been moved to a convalescent ward of six beds, currently empty other than himself; most of the wounded from the attack a few days ago have already recuperated under the effects of healing magic, while those poisoned by the corruption are still unconscious in the hospice room, poor souls. The chief physicker has by now discarded Castiel’s awakening as a freak event (discretion stopped him from telling her about the neutralizing effect of remaining Grace in his bloodstream) and tried other remedies. Some of the patients are doing better. Two more died last night, may they rest in peace. Dean, concerned ruler that he is, has been visiting every day since the attack for a progress report and to boost the morale of the staff here. It seems the younger female healers have made it a ritual to congregate at this spot of railing to watch the king from a distance and coo. Castiel observes this behavior with dull distant wonder.

“How handsome…”

“Hmm.” 

“Damn it, why couldn’t I have been the one to save his life?”

Castiel’s ears prick.

A snicker. “As if you have enough healing magic.”

“I could have! You know, out of desperation…”

“You can barely heal a sprain.”

The only answer is a raspberry. 

“How romantic, though,” another one sighs.

“Yes.”

“Do you think he’ll ever find her? We sure she’s not one of those in our care? She must have been right in the thick of it. Maybe she breathed in that poison.” 

“He’s not recognized her. I caught him checking out every mage that’s been brought in carefully.” 

“There are others injured throughout the city.” 

“Yes, and I hear he’s visited every hospice and sick room looking for her.”

“So romantic!”

“They say she’s as beautiful as a spring day with hair as fair as the wheat!”

“...I don’t think he knows what she looks like.” The interjection is a little hesitant. “Wasn’t he blinded?”

“He just knows her voice!” one exclaims while another one says: “Really? I’m sure someone said she’s blonde,” and the one who’d interjected before goes at it again with, “Actually I don’t think she said anything, so he doesn’t actually know-”

“Whoever she is, I wish we could thank her for the King's life.”

Castiel feels a mixture of puzzlement and alarm. Who exactly are they talking about? Or more precisely, which event are they talking about? Has Dean been in deadly danger _again_ within the last four days since the battle…? Or are they talking about Castiel’s efforts at saving Dean from the gas? What does a blonde human have to do with it then?

“She must be a good person, to risk her life for him in the midst of such a battle.”

“Yes. Our new queen for sure, if he finds her.”

“You think? I mean, I just hear he wants to reward her.”

“Yeah, _reward_ her.”

Giggles and a snort of “Don’t be a chamber pot!”

“Oh come on, fighting off evil and saving his life like that, it’s destiny! Fated love! Like in the tales!”

“I guess it is a bit like the knight rescuing the princess from the dragon. Except this time it’s the other way around.”

“Or the princess magicked into a swan-”

“And then the king’s true love turns her back and he marries her-”

“After he slays the dragon-”

“No, the dragon is another story.”

“But either way, when someone saves your life like that, it’s destiny, right? That always ends in a marriage.”

Castiel is not all that acquainted with human mating customs in the same way humans are not all that acquainted with the geography of Jupiter, but none of this sounds like a good basis for a relationship.

Sudden silence heralds approaching footsteps and a chorus of “Your majesty,” in soft whispers.

“Be out in a few minutes Benny,” says Dean right outside the door. Then: “Hey, Cas! I heard they moved you here last night.”

Castiel looks around. There’s no-one else in the room, so Dean must be addressing him. Cas?

Dean, alive and vibrant, parks himself at the side of the bed, arms crossed and armor creaking as it comes to a repose. One sweeping glance measures the patient and attempts to assess his health. “How are you feeling?” 

“Bored.” This is not a new sensation for Castiel, the last few millennia have been mostly boring, what with their enemies all but vanquished.

Dean is still looking him over, though surely he has to remember that Castiel wasn’t physically injured beyond the poison. “You look damn good. Healthy, I mean healthy. Why aren’t you up and about?”

“The healer says I can leave tomorrow.”

“Looks like you could leave today.”

“Yes.”

Dean cocks his head, appearing puzzled by the curt monosyllable. “So why are you still lollygagging in the sheets?” 

“She says it is important that I rest. She says I need to stay in bed. She knows more about mortality than I do,” Castiel concludes with a shrug.

Dean huffs a chuckle. “Funny way of putting it, but yeah, best follow her advice.” 

“How about you?”

“Me?” 

Castiel tilts his head in the direction of the mezzanine where the young healers have stepped back discreetly, though their hushed words and occasional giggles can still be heard. “They were talking about your life being in danger. Are you well?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, happened during the battle. I got cornered like an idiot and poisoned like a roach.” Dean rolls his eyes in self-deprecation, but then a warm smile takes its place. “If you heard about that, you’ll have also heard about my angel, right? Uh, Cas? You okay? Here, I’ll get you some water.”

“You-” _cough_ , “-you-” _splutter_ , “-whu-”, _wheeze_ , “- angel?” Damn mortal lungs! Damn slow healing rate that leaves him at the mercy of coughing fits at the slightest gasp of surprise!

“That’s what I call her. You alright?” A mug is pressed into Castiel’s fingers and helped to his lips. Watered wine rushes over his tongue and douses some of the burn. The healers did their best in the circumstances, but they’re in charge of a great number of patients, so Castiel is putting up with minor sequelae that were judged too unimportant to heal. It’s not pleasant. All very meaty and mortal and itchy. 

He finally manages to stop coughing and clears his throat enough to talk after a couple of tries. “...I am very confused.”

“Huh?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“The woman who saved me.”

“What woman?”

“Well.” Dean rubs the back of his neck and glances off in the distance. Specifically he glances over at the gaggle of healers (sudden silence from that quarter) as if looking for someone, but then his gaze skips back to Castiel. “It’s all kind of mysterious, really. The castle was a madhouse, see, we had people running away from the fight, while our allied soldiers and knights from outside the walls were charging in to help. We had demons, we had mages… in the midst of that, I got separated from the main force and cornered, poisoned with a dose of that foul fart of Satan the demon’s brewed up, blinded, quasi dead… but somebody slew the demons who’d hounded me, came in and healed me. You should have seen the place. Sammy - my brother, he’s the one who found me, he said he couldn’t believe it, he’s never seen such a- a manifestation, I think he calls it? Place was all glittery and the wood sprouted leaves - he says only a great discharge of life force could have done it, maybe to the point where it hurt the one wielding it.” Dean’s face clouds over. “I hope not. I’ve been searching all the camps and the hospices for her since then, hoping to find her.”

Castiel has been boggling at him all this time as this chain of odd interpretations come tumbling out, until finally he can only ask: “Why?”

Dean looks like he’s been suddenly awakened from a daydream. “Huh? Why? Uh, well, to thank her of course. And, well, to make sure she’s okay after using all that magic to-”

“Magic?! Magic did not heal you!” Castiel spits.

Dean looks down at him in blatant surprise. “How would you know? What was it if not magic? A miracle?” The king snorts. His derision keeps Castiel’s ‘why, yes, actually’ in the shelter of his mouth. The mistake irritates him, but he can’t say anything without revealing the divine nature of the intervention, which would be against the rules. 

“I really hope she’s alright.” Dean’s looking off into the empty corner of the recovery ward in a way that faintly aggravates Castiel without being able to explain why. “I owe her my life. And… well, she was very beautiful…” 

Castiel swallows away the bitter taste in his mouth along with a sip from the tumbler, still chewing over ‘magic’ as well as a bunch of imprecations in Enochian, when that last word catches up to him. “Beautiful?”

Dean rubs his nose. There’s a faint trace of pink kissing his cheeks. “Unfortunately, as to that, I can only guess. I was practically blind. That’s why I have no clue who she is. I only caught a glimpse before I passed out. I’m pretty sure she had on a white dress, and her hair was so blonde…. the way it caught the sun, it shone like a halo.”

A similar burst of figurative light goes off in Castiel’s head. Ahhh, that explains it. Hovering between life and death, Dean’s soul caught a sense of Castiel's true self, which might be said to match that description. Well, not the blond bit particularly. Or female. Nor the beautiful part- maybe Dean dreamed all of this. 

“But you didn’t see hi- er, this person’s face. Right?” Castiel probes carefully. 

“No. Tell you the truth, it could have been a man. Some of the male healers wear long white coats. I’ve checked them as well, just in case.”

“But you said beautiful.”

“I didn’t mean her face. I’m not superficial, whatever some romantic twits might think.” Dean casts a faintly sardonic look at the distant healers. “I don’t need a portrait of her features to know she’s a wonderful person. It’s the beauty of her actions I’m talking about: her self sacrifice, her valor, the risk she took to get to me, her dedication in healing me at great cost. And… and the gentleness of her touch. Her kindness. The comfort she gave me…”

Castiel can’t remember providing any of that. He wonders how much gas Dean had inhaled. A side effect of hypoxia perhaps?

“I only saw her for a few short seconds, but I’m sure I’ll recognize her when I see her again… I know I’ll never forget her… I owe her everything… But I suppose you don’t approve all the same.” Dean’s distant look switches to a much more astute one centered on Castiel. “Since healing magic is still magic.”

“Yes,” Castiel admits. “It’s put to the best of uses, but it does not completely alleviate the risk to the user’s soul or the potential abuse of power that humans were not meant to have.”

“As soon as you’re better, Cas, I am getting you together one evening with Sammy. I’m gonna set you both down at the same table, mention magic, then sit back with a flagon of beer and a plate of pork cracklings to watch the fight.”

Castiel considers this hesitantly. “...I don’t want to fight your brother. Do I have to?”

Dean stifles a short laugh, a light sound that makes Castiel think confusingly of the brash beam of sunshine that barged into his room earlier to paint the plain whitewashed wall with gold and light. 

“No, please don’t fight Sammy, even if I’m curious to see who wins,” Dean says with a last chuckle. “Because from what I heard, the result might be quite close. Which brings me around to what I came here to talk to you about today.”

“Yes?”

Dean moves forward to sit right down on the bed at Castiel’s side. “When you get out, I want you in the Hunters.”

“What’s that?” 

“It’s my personal vanguard.”

“Alright.”

Dean looks at him as if he expects Castiel to say something more pertinent. 

“I am not looking to force your hand, though. Perhaps you were looking to join the templars when you first arrived?” he eventually asks.

“Who are they?”

“The holy crusaders. Mostly knights and men of faith joining us from other nations. They march forth with the padres and the hymns and all that, opposing the armies of the damned. I seem to remember you hold the Lord’s word highly.”

Castiel searches his memory. “Are these crusaders the ones who were recently attacking other humans around Jerusalem over some religious argument or other?”

Dean takes a few seconds to work through that question. “Yeah. Some religious argument or other as you put it. Those crusades were back in my grandfather’s days, mind you, hardly ‘recently’. The demon army has rather united both christians and moors against the-”

“I don’t think I’d fit there. I disagree with a lot they believe in.”

“Oh? Well, then will you consider my Hunters? Fair warning: we have all kinds in there, and none of them would get very far in the holy orders. We spit, we drink and we cuss like sailors. We’re also at the forefront of all the fights, in the thick of it.”

“Good.”

Dean snorts and rubs his chin, staring at Castiel like he’s weighing him again. “I only take the toughest and the best, but I think you qualify. I’ve been hearing a lot about you since yesterday.”

Castiel cocks his head, not sure what Dean means.

“You see, at first I thought you’d gotten knocked over by poison right at the start, after I left you at the recruitment office. But Sam told me, once he got a good look at you, that he remembers seeing you during his stand at the stableyard. So I asked around. A lot of folks and fellow soldiers tell me they were saved by this guy in a brown coat wielding a silver knife, knocking down demons like skittles.” 

Castiel looks at him. Dean looks back. He seems to be expecting a response. 

“I suppose that sounds like me. I did kill a number of demons. I don't know how many other soldiers have brown coats and silver blades, though.”

Dean gives him a toothy smile. “Not a lot, I wager. So, strong, skillful, and humble to boot.”

“...Am I humble?” This is not a trait traditionally associated with angels, though its opposite, pride, is bad since it leads to downfalls such as Lucifer’s. 

“I don’t know about that, but I do know I can’t wait for you to get back on your feet so you can strut your stuff. We got sparring rings here. I’ll take you on myself if you don’t mind.” Dean’s strong features are alight with enthusiasm like an echo of bright soul-light. “I’m mighty eager to get the measure of my latest mysterious recruit. You show up outta nowhere just in time to wheel into action during the battle, you save dozens of men, and by all accounts you fight like a demon. An expression, of course.”

“Not in good taste,” Castiel points out reprovingly. 

Dean’s toothy grin grows wider, it makes his green eyes crinkle at the sides. “You guys don’t have kings where you’re from, I wager.”

“No.”

“I figured as much, because you sure don’t know how to talk to one.”

“Am I supposed to talk differently to kings?” Come to think of it, isn’t Dean supposed to talk differently too? Castiel vaguely remembers that all of the royalty he’s surveilled in the last few centuries spoke in a very stuffy manner, but Dean’s verbiage is, on the contrary, rather relaxed even by the standard of many a knight.

“Well, normally yeah, there’s etiquette-... but you know what? When we’re alone, why don’t we just ignore that. Lord knows I don’t like the royal rigmarole.” Dean pushes up his gold coronet with a thumb as if the metal is a tad too tight. “If anyone takes you to task over it, just remind him you’re not from around here, and that the customs are different wherever you're from.”

There follows a short silence where Dean seems to wait for further information. When Castiel says nothing, Dean prompts him: “So, where do you hail from?”

Castiel pauses, unwilling to lie in the face of that brilliant white soul light he still remembers, the Righteous Man before him.

“Is it far?”

… Now Castiel pauses because the thought of educating Dean (who is a warrior king rather than a scholar) in the higher mathematics required to understand the distance between Heaven and Earth is daunting.

“Cas.”

Castiel looks up from his wrestling with conundrums and the English language. Dean is looking at him steadily in a way that captivates Castiel’s entire attention. 

“You here to help?” Dean asks almost gently.

“Yes,” answers Castiel without hesitation.

The small smile widens.

“Then I don’t need to know about your past. Out in the old kingdoms,” a vague wave out the window in a westerly direction presumably shows the way to that place, “they make a whole deal about who your parents and grandparents and great-grandparents are, but not in Lawrence. We got all sorts here. We got warriors and magic users. We got at least one queen in camp, and a whole lot of bastards. We got people from places so far away I never even heard the name before, and runaways from the kingdom next door who are fleeing serfdom or even actual crimes. My grandfather Henry wasn’t born a king, he was a philosopher who lucked into the right marriage and alliance and got this small out of the way land to rule as a result. In his mind, Lawrence was gonna be a place where merit and service were rewarded more than blood ties and a silver spoon up the bunt. Prove yourself trustworthy, and you will have my trust. Prove yourself loyal, and you’ll have my faith in return. Serve me, serve this kingdom and its folk, and I will never ask you from where you hail or what you might be running from. It’ll no longer be important. You’ll be one of this kingdom’s citizens, you’ll be my soldier, and that’s all that matters.” 

Castiel is unable to look away as something shifts and settles in his chest, a profound bond newly forged, a sense of belonging stronger than he’s ever known since it’s not a function of his creation or a duty he’s been born and bound to; it’s offered, it’s promised, it’s earned. It will be his own. 

Dean rubs his nose. His cheeks have flushed a little and he looks away as if Castiel’s straight gaze and visible wonder have discomfited him. 

“And if trouble from your past comes lookin’ for you, don’t worry, we’ll send it packing. Had to do that before, will do it again.”

“No, I’ve cut ties cleanly.” 

“All good then. Welcome aboard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas and holidays you all :) I hope you enjoyed that sweet start-of-Destiel for belated present...


	3. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel demonstrates he'd make a terrible priest; he'd listen attentively to the confessions and understand every word, while missing the entire point systematically each and every time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A year has elapsed between the last chapter and this one. I mean, in-story, a year has passed. The actual chapter was posted last year too, but- you know what I mean.

Dust trickles down from the rafters of the abandoned country chapel, sparkling like gold dust where it intersects the sunbeams casting light over the fallen pews. The altar cloth is on the floor, the chalice and cross were stolen in the confusion, but those material objects matter not a whit. The stained glass window above the altar depicts a cup, a cross and a dove, the holy symbols of this region; the light pouring through it lays a carpet of colored wonder on the flagstones where Castiel kneels and bows his head. 

Back when he was an angel a step away from divinity, he’d been deafened by a million years of silence. But in the past twelve months since his Fall, Castiel has mended fences with his Father somewhat. He’d not understood God’s fascination for humanity, but here in the trenches of their mortality, this is where Castiel has found some kind of answer; this is where he has felt the hand of his Father, generous at times, capricious at others, but always there, even as the free will He gave birth to thinks to question His very existence at times. Castiel now has a mortal life, and he feels… humbled, he feels small and new again, at the whims of fate, grateful to his Father for every day that is left - not because God is in any way helping him with his survival, but because He is the architect of every precious second, from first to last, to be enjoyed in gratitude. From an outside perspective, Castiel’s life is one of battles and hardships, but inside he feels at peace: celestial duty and expectations set down, a path chosen, a quiet time and space before death and his reunion with Eternity…Castiel kneels, quiet in contemplation for a while until he eventually looks up to see what Dean wants.

The king is startled by the movement. He’s leaning against a pillar, surrounded by the same silence as the rest of the church, and for a tiny moment before he blinked in surprise, his eyes were wide, oddly soft, his expression open onto some emotion that even now, a year later, Castiel is not all that good at reading. If only humans had wings to express their thoughts and feelings the way angels do.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to bother you,” says Dean as if he’s just arrived, which is odd as he’s been leaning against that pillar for almost five minutes watching Castiel according to the latter’s senses. Castiel doesn’t wonder much about this inconsistency. In this past year, he has run into so many mysteries of human behavior that he’s just learned to let it all slide, navigating the complexities of societal interactions like a swan floating over turbulent water, calm and serene above it all. It took a while for his mortal companions to accept this attitude and understand it does not come from contempt, merely alienness, but once he saved their lives a few times and showed his worth, his friends in the Hunter squad have now accepted him and his oddities.

“I am not bothered,” says Castiel serenely, getting to his feet to go straighten up one of the fallen pew. Dean takes this as an invitation to join him, and they sit side by side in silence for a while, looking at the stained glass window. The artist’s faith shines through in the pains he took, though sadly it outstripped his talent; the dove looks like a strangled chicken and the bowl’s mangled perspective manages to ruffle even Castiel’s angelic patience. 

“S’pity this chapel got trashed.” Dean speaks quietly, his loud and forthright manner toned down out of respect for the sanctity of the place. “I’ll get some people to come by later and set it to right.” 

“That is a good idea.” Small villages dotting this region revolve around this chapel, whatever the dove looks like. The villagers fled before the enemy incursion, but now that Dean and his Hunters have cleared the area, they’re returning to salvage the late spring harvest. They could use a place to congregate, take stock and give thanks. 

“Did you need me for anything?”

“When do I not? That’s what you get for becoming indispensable, Cas.”

“That’s alright. It’s good that I can be of help to you.”

That simple truth earns him a smile as warm as the sunshine pouring through the windows. Dean doesn’t speak right away and a golden hush settles, highlighted rather than broken by the noises of a camp full of soldiers settling outside.

The Hunters are an oddball squadron, the very opposite of Heaven’s regimented ranks, and they are the best of humanity. They come from all corners of the earth, from all religions and with a plethora of beliefs and preferences, the kind of principles over which humans have been thumping each other for centuries, and yet in the Hunters the only creed is: “Can you fight? Do you hate demons? Yeah? Then welcome to the crew.”

The Hunters are the sharp dagger’s point of Dean’s armies as well as his pride and joy, he often leads them into battle himself and appoints their commanding officers personally. The previous commander was one Victor, son of Henrick of Maine, but he proved too good even for this honorable posting; back in the fall, Dean knighted the man and gave him a large barony on the border to manage. The reward was well earned, but it left Dean with the charge of finding a successor who could fill Victor’s formidable shoes.

Thanks to Dean’s recognition and personal interest in Castiel’s career a year ago, the fallen angel avoided becoming a foot soldier lost in the rank and file. His tenure in the Hunters proved him to be faster, stronger, tougher than most humans of this age, and he’s had a few billion years of experience commanding small military units and fighting demons, so despite all his oddities and his newness, everybody approved Dean’s decision to promote him in Victor’s place. Castiel has been leading this motley crew of humans for the past half year, and they’ve become his pride and joy too, come to think of it. 

They proved their mettle again these past three days. This region was infiltrated at the turn of the year by monsters born of Eve, egged on by stragglers from the demon horde and abetted by opportunistic bandits of the mortal variety, the usual leavings from the bottom of humanity’s barrel. The numbers between the two sides were even. The fiends had their supernatural means and cruelty on their side, but the Hunters had faith and organization, and prevailed without too much effort or any loss of life. They’ll leave this region under the protection of a regular army patrol tomorrow and go to the next hot spot further east, but tonight the Hunters are going to party as they usually do after any engagement.

Nobody was particularly surprised when Castiel visited the chapel rather than join them in their revelry. They think it’s hilarious how he eschews the traditional soldier’s entertainments with a puzzled air to go and do something boring instead. Castiel pays no heed to the snickers and the over-the-top eye rolls directed at his back.

His troops call him ‘saint Cas’ or ‘your holiness the pope’ to his face. Castiel is neither the roman pontiff nor canonized, but he doesn’t correct them.

They tease him about his abstinence, his stony delivery and his complete inability to understand their jokes. Castiel doesn’t mind.

They fall like a pack of wild dogs on anyone outside their group who dares to mock his behavior, oddly proud of their weird commander and his oddities, and at that point Castiel has to step in and restore order.

Then they call him ‘mom’ or ‘mother superior’ and pretend to be sent to bed without supper. Castiel indulges them.

Dean finds it all hilarious, like a lot of things about Castiel. Far from the court, Dean is less like a king and more like one of the Hunters. He teases the commander like they do, and he drinks and swears and flirts with the best of them. 

But there've been more and more of these moments, too, when he foregoes the parties and joins Castiel to talk where it is quiet. It makes sense. The Hunters are Dean’s vanguard and Castiel is his right hand man, they have to communicate often. A lot of their talks revolve around strikes and deployments, but at times other subjects creep in, in and around the briefings and strategy sessions. Over this past year, they’ve discussed faith, historical triumphs and defeats, food, rifles, politics, gambling, idiotic superstitions soldiers believe in, and whether the best undergarment outside of battle are trousers, or leggings and a codpiece (Castiel believes the former while Dean believes the latter because ‘it looks way more impressive!’) 

There are also those times, few and precious, where the solitary talks delve deeper. Dean’s told him what it was like growing up the eldest son of King John of Lawrence after his mother’s death; how he was coronated at the tender age of fifteen, and had to be both mother, father, king and brother to Samuel, and indeed to an entire country, and how Dean feels like he’s losing himself in all this sometimes, diluted like wine in too much water (at which point he rides with the Hunters for a while and ‘bashes demons until the feeling goes away, works every time’.) He also shared his private opinion on hereditary royalty: which, to summarize Dean’s argument, ‘blows’. A surprising philosophy for a monarch, Castiel opined, at which point he learned that Dean is merely waiting for the first quiet year after the demon wars to rebuild Lawrence’s government from the ground up, turning it into an elective monarchy. Hence his effort to populate the noble class with ‘fellows who have their head screwed on right’. It’s also the reason he refuses all the marriage alliances from other kingdoms his privy council pushes on him, as that would give another monarchy a stake in Lawrence’s. Sam will still be Dean’s heir until further notice, but in this scenario, he or Dean’s descendants won’t automatically inherit the throne, they will have to be chosen by a council of nobles and burgermeisters. Because the traditional system ‘is crap, why should someone get to say what everyone else has to do just because they get squeezed out by the right dame?’ 

In turn, Castiel’s told Dean a bit about his past, which is more than anyone else in the army can claim. Not the details, of course, as that is forbidden, but he’s been forthright about the rest. Explaining that his father left without a word. How his home felt empty, every gesture and duty more and more meaningless, devoured by a strange sort of silence… How it suddenly reached a head and he decided to leave, and that he can no longer go back. He alludes to all the dizzying differences between his previous rigid life and this new chaotic one, as well as the ways they are surprisingly similar - and he apologizes, because he can’t explain everything, it’s another world, too different to fully comprehend… at which point Dean squeezes his shoulder and says, “Don’t let your past worry you, Cas. Your future is with us, and that’s what matters.” 

And sometimes they just sit like this in companionable silence. 

Finally, Castiel stirs. “...And? You need me for…?”

“Well, I don’t want to interrupt your prayers.”

“I’m done.”

Dean claps his thighs and shoves himself to his feet on the impetus, swapping that rare moment of stillness for his usual coiled energy. “Alright then, come on, we got a situation brewing, but I’m gonna need a map. There’s one in my tent. Also the reports I just received- hello there.”

The young woman has been dithering at the arch of the chapel’s entrance for five minutes, trying to look meek, modest and only there by chance while visibly vibrating with nerves and anticipation. Her blond hair is freshly cleaned, combed and flowing loose instead of hidden under a maiden’s coife, and her simple peasant dress is a spun beige linen that’s a decent attempt at white, as decent as someone from the peasantry can manage. In her hands she is carrying a bouquet of lilies, wilting a little at the edges.

Dean and Cas share a resigned glance. Another one.

“Oh your majesty, I’m so sorry, I was comin’ to prayer - I comes every day to thank the Good Lord for makin’ me the healer’s apprentice to our village-” her breathless and rehearsed introduction runs out and she abruptly falls into a curtsey, all red in the face.

“Really? And you’re so young, that’s amazing,” Dean says kindly, because even as his wit can be as sharp as his sword and as deadly as his flintstone rifle, he never lets it fall on those who cannot withstand it. “You take good care of your villagers, now, a healer’s the most important citizen right after the burgermeister and the clergy. We’ll let you get to your prayers.”

He walks on, ignoring the crestfallen look directed at his back. 

“They just keep coming out of the woodworks,” he says idly once they’re out of earshot. “I thought I’d be spared in the middle of a war zone.”

“This area is quiet now.”

“I was exaggerating for effect.”

“Oh, that,” deadpans Castiel. Dean snickers.

“Got to give that child back there a royal salute for trying,” the king adds idly after a few more steps. “She even got the lilies. What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was an awfully weird snort for ‘nothing’.”

“...The details of your supposed savior just keep getting more and more elaborate.”

“What do you mean, supposed?”

“You don’t actually remember what happened.”

“I remember everything that happened perfectly-”

Castiel tenses despite knowing what Dean’s about to say next, he’s heard it often enough.

“But since I couldn’t see worth a damn and my savior never said a blessed word, I got nothing to really remember.” Dean sighs. “I mean, I remember the dress, and the light of her hair, and I’m almost sure I remember her holding something white or silver - or maybe it was on her dress. It was thin and straight like a long cross, but it might have been a flower, who knows. All these hopeful girls bring out lilies because it’s a symbol of purity and royalty... I wish she hadn’t disappeared… But that’s okay. Even if I have to fight my way through an army of pretty women dressed in white and barring my way with bouquets, I’ll find her one day.”

This isn’t the first time Dean’s mentioned the fabled golden-haired healer who saved him a year ago. It didn’t bother Castiel all that much to start with; on the contrary, it made it that more unlikely his role in the matter would be discovered, with all the complications, questions and revelations that would entail. Yes, it really is a good thing Dean believes he’d been healed by a pretty blonde hitting him over the head with a daisy or whatever, it serves Castiel’s need for discretion. Right? Yet for some reason, the more he gets to know Dean, the more this delusion bothers him in some way. 

Not for the first time in the past few months, Castiel wonders if he should say something. Could he drop a hint? Or… should he lie a bit? A little white lie that would hide his use of grace? He’s never done that before, he’s not sure he’ll be any good at it. But, says an internal voice, you can still say, ‘Dean, since you still haven’t forgotten about it a year later, I should let you know, I was the one who saved your life - and it wasn’t a damn lily or a cross, you just saw the reflection of light off my blade as your healed eyes came into focus.’ Just to set the record straight.

A lot of complicated explanations would ensue and probably a lot of doubt too, but even if he could prove his point… then what?

“And then what?” asks Castiel out loud. “Assuming you find this person, what happens next?”

Dean, who’s taken off his coronet and is twirling it around his finger like a hoop, gives Castiel a ‘isn’t it obvious?’ look. “Well, saving a king’s life usually entails marriage, that’s why they’re all pressing at the gates.” 

Castiel is well aware of the ridiculous romantic notions humans are capable of, the outrageous fairy-tales, and particularly the expectations around the White-Gold Healer that’s taken hold of the collective imagination. It’s gotten muddled in the retelling, to the point where this general idea has taken hold that Dean is looking for his One True Love, but that all he knows about her is that she is a beautiful blonde healer in a white dress bearing lilies, and that he’ll know he’s found her the day their eyes meet. Or something. It gets progressively more garbled as the months go by, compounded by and it’s mostly harmless other than leading to ambushes by pretty young blonde flower-bearing girls all over the kingdom, hoping the fairytale will be theirs. 

But maybe Castiel’s faint unexplained irritation has finally reached a peak or else the temptation he passingly felt to come clean has tipped the scales at long last. Instead of ignoring the subject as he usually does, he finally comes out with his own opinion. “Assuming you ever find this person, why would you do anything more than thank them and move on?”

“Move on? Just like that? What, you don’t believe in destined souls? Or love at first sight?” Dean asks languidly, watching a couple of crows settle on a branch and look disappointed at the lack of plunderable battlefields close by. 

“No,” says Castiel bluntly. “And whether it’s love or merely gratitude, I think finding this person would be a bad thing.”

Dean looks surprised. “I get you’re no fancier of epic ballads, but how would simple gratitude be a bad thing?”

“At this point? With all the ridiculous expectations people are heaping onto the head of this supposed savior or yours? Showing up now would look quite mercenary. Maybe that’s why this mystery person of yours is not coming forward. Real kindness does not require payment. Sacrifice is the greater for being unknown. And as if gratitude alone isn’t enough of a burden, the populace now wants you hitched in holy matrimony to this person. Don’t you think that’s ridiculous? An obligation, a life debt, is not by itself a good basis for even a friendship, much less one of these lifelong commitments humans form for one another.”

“You say the weirdest stuff at times. Look, dude, some would say it’s destiny. A fair maiden saving my life, vanishing before I can thank her, then fate leading me to find her again after a year of searching- it’s a grand tale, it’s poetry, it’s fated love, all that.”

“I posit that if your savior turns out to be a sixty year old man with a fondness for garlic, you will find the boundary between love and gratitude very promptly.”

“You, your holiness, have no romance in your soul.”

“I am grateful for it.”

Twirl, twirl, twirl goes the coronet. Castiel’s seen Dean do that many times, but never with so much application before… They’re circling the camp at a distance to get to Dean’s pavilion without having to make their way through the press of Hunters rapidly getting drunk and always looking for company, even of the royal variety (it’s long been accepted among the Hunters that majesty doesn’t matter on the battlefield and Dean prefers to be treated as just another one of them.) Dean would normally join them with pleasure, but today he’s skirting the assembly as if he wants to keep Castiel to himself for a while.

“...Though of course, it’s not… I mean, if it was a man who…”

Castiel leans forward. Dean was mumbling, Castiel’s not sure he heard that.

“What?” he finally prompts when Dean doesn’t seem to want to continue. 

Fingers grasp the gold band firmly and Dean’s step takes on a bit of a stomp as he says, loud and clear: “That wouldn't be a problem for me.”

“...You’d contemplate marrying someone that much older than-”

“I meant if it were a man, moron,” Dean snaps, then his lips pinch. He’s not looking at Castiel, he’s walking straight onwards. Castiel follows obediently. 

This is apparently not the right thing to do because Dean stops after five steps and spins on him almost aggressively. “Well?!”

“...Well…?”

“Come on, out with it. Is that a problem for you?”

“...I don’t think you should get involved with this person at all, so what does the gender matter?”

“No, I meant, I, I was saying that I- it’s not about my savior, it’s in general. I could, um.” Dean glares at the hopeful crows like he’s wishing he had a crossbow. “I could take a man as companion instead of a woman. If I met the right- that is- yeah. That’s what I said.”

There is a moment of increasing intensity in which it appears Castiel is supposed to be saying something. He has absolutely no idea what, though.

“Is that a problem? And don’t give me the ‘you’re the king so I don’t get to judge’ crap, just-... just don’t.” Dean speaks sharply, but there is something oddly vulnerable in his very abruptness.

“Judge…?”

“Yeah, you’re so very religious.”

“That’s debatable. Oh. Oh, you think I would disapprove. Because of my faith? Dean, you know my position. Your holy books collectively get more wrong than right, and there are no strictures in that regards anyway, not in the versions that were not ruined by inept translations.” 

“...Huh?”

“There are many of the Hunters who are not traditional in that regard and I have no problem with any of them,” Castiel assures him more plainly, knowing Dean prefers frank speech to diving down a theological rabbit hole. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” says Dean expansively, though he’s relaxed very abruptly for someone who seems so very sure of himself now, to the point where he almost drops his coronet. There’s a bit of fumbling and Castiel’s awkward assistance almost sends the gold circlet flying, but then it’s once more in Dean’s grasp. Dean inspects it carefully as if he’s unfamiliar with it. They’re still not moving any closer to Dean’s pavilion, and the silence, lingering, seems to grow denser as Dean glances his way and then back at the crown. 

“So.”

Castiel watches him with his usual forthrightness. He knows it makes humans uncomfortable, but it’s hard enough for him to pick up social cues as it is; if he couldn’t watch his interlocutors carefully, he’d be totally hopeless.

Dean clears his throat and looks away from that straight gaze. He’s very different in court or in front of the army, Castiel distantly reflects. Dean talks to lords, kings and emperors with a hundred generations of so-called divine rule in their blood, and he stands fast like the rock of ages, like the walls of Jerusalem. He can stare down a horde of rampaging demons and smile coldly as he lifts a hand to rain down holy wrath upon them. He sits in court, motionless as stone yet with the power of life and death in his hands, in the steady gaze that renders judgment, condemns or forgives… Castiel has seen it all this past year. It’s only in rare moments like these he sees this other side of Dean, the human side predominating over the King, the commander, the one master after God…

“They all say… the other Hunters, ah, they all swear that you were a monk back in your distant land, here in disguise to help us out against the heathen horde.” Dean returns to examining their surroundings after only the briefest glance Castiel’s way. 

“They like to tease me,” says Castiel indulgently.

“Is it teasing?”

“...I am not a monk. Why do you think I am a monk?”

“They say that when it comes to the soldier’s respite, wine, women and song, the only thing anyone’s ever seen you do is sing.” 

“That is incorrect.”

Suddenly Dean is looking him straight in the eye and seems very interested indeed. “Oh?”

“I’m not allowed to sing anymore. My voice is not all that pleasant, I’m told. Besides, I only know hymns, and my men say those are a bad omen on the battlefield.”

“...You sure you're not a monk?”

“I am sure.”

“But you don’t ever… that is, nobody’s ever caught your eye?”

“Caught… my eye?”

“Tch, how long have you been in the army- don’t you know what that means by now? I mean for, you know. You _know_.”

“...procreation?”

Dean goes red in the face and makes an odd sound like “prorcle.”

“That is correct. Nobody has caught my eye, as you say.”

“But you wouldn’t actually be opposed to cleaving to someone?” Dean probes. 

“I don’t know, it’s never happened before.”

“Oh,” says Dean softly. “So what would induce you to…?”

“I… can’t answer that.” It’s Castiel’s turn to stare at the crows (who take one look back at him and burst into a straight line of flight out of there like two feathery arrows, because animals, unlike men, can still feel traces of the Other on him, echoes of the divine soldier.) “I’m… my past is... my life used to be very strict. Very ordered.”

“Monk,” says Dean sotto voce. “Called it.”

It’s not that Castiel has never thought of these matters before, because he’s certainly had a few offers this past year. Actually he suspects he’s received quite a lot of offers, but unless the person approaching him is very blunt, or unless he has one of his Hunter friends with him to interpret, he tends to miss milder suggestions by a mile… Even when the offer for intimacy was obvious and well-stated, Castiel has only found himself perplexed rather than interested.

“I don’t believe I’m eager to throw myself into anything, at any rate. I… this last year has been confusing at times. I had to learn to be-... to live in your kingdom as one of you, I had to learn to be a soldier of men rather than God, then I had to command these people, and every day I am learning how to… how to interact with them.”

Yes, Castiel, commander of the Hunters, glides on past all the human menagerie, imperturbable, serene like a swan… and like the swan, he’s paddling hard beneath it all to keep up with many of the basics he’s only just beginning to master.

“It’s not as easy for me as it is for you, for any of you. I’m… a bit different. I am learning, however. Right now, I am learning how to be friends with other mortals. It’s hard at times, it’s confusing, and I still make mistakes. But that’s alright,” he concludes. “Having those friends… it has been infinitely rewarding.”

Dean looks at him quietly for a while and then gifts him with a soft smile. “Good. I hope I count among those numbers.”

Castiel looks at him with surprise. “Dean, you were the first.”

“Oh, well, that makes me feel more special than this bloody thing ever did,” says Dean with an extra twirl of the coronet as he marches once more towards his pavilion and the next stage of their battle plans. 

\---

Castiel was being honest, Dean truly is the first friend he made on earth. But beyond that, the relationship they share feels different than others, it feels special… On the one hand, this shouldn’t be surprising: Castiel all but fell from grace for this man, and he saved Dean’s life. You can’t get more special than that. But the more Castiel thinks about it, the fuzzier this reason seems. Castiel would have probably fallen sooner or later anyway, and Dean thinks some blonde in a white dress cured him with the application of a bunch of lilies. No, their relationship goes beyond that. Dean’s the king and Castiel is his commander, they work well together, complementing each other’s strengths. And yes, they are also friends…

Yet their bond feels more profound than that, and Castiel can’t put his finger on its nature, or why it seems to be growing stronger rather than fainter the further they get from the whole fell-from-grace-and-saved-Dean’s-life nexus of their interaction. It could be explained if Dean were a paragon of human virtue - the kind an angel would admire - but in truth Dean falls… a bit short. He may be a Righteous Man (and at times Castiel can barely remember how the soul shone now that he knows so much about the mortal that harbors it), but he’s still very human and with definite flaws, impatience and brashness being paramount. 

\---

“That was stupid, Dean.”

“Cas,” says Dean as he pulls on the sleeve of his hauberk, “you know you’re not supposed to talk to me like that, theoretically.”

“That was really stupid, your majesty.”

“There you go. Here, help me tie this.”

Castiel begrudgingly ties the hauberk’s sleeve back on by its leather thongs that buckle to the mailed tunic at the shoulder. Garth and his pliers fixed the tear in the sleeve’s chainmail while Dean was under the healer’s care. The shiny line of new rings, ten long and three high, look like a screaming mouth. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yes, mother superior, now go and ring in Complines.”

“It’s only mid-morning. And we don’t have a bell.” Castiel has gotten better at spotting more blatant attempts at humor, but not when he’s this distracted and worried and annoyed.

The king snickers. Castiel’s irritation doubles. 

All around the makeshift infirmary, horses stamp, men shout, someone runs by with a barrel of gunpowder, but nobody is currently shooting. Castiel estimates they have another hour before they can expect either Sam’s reinforcements or a new wave of attacks, whichever comes first. They’re in the ruins of an old port with their backs to the sea, far from ideal strategically speaking. Which is something Castiel pointed out early this morning before they charged right into this mousetrap. 

But Dean didn’t want to wait around and play it safe, he didn’t want to miss this opportunity to deal the demons a decisive blow, and he trusted his ‘hunter’s instinct’ when it came to traps. Now, Dean is an amazing fighter and a strong commander of men, there’s no doubt, but he underestimates how desperately the demons want him dead. They’ll have no problems sacrificing hundreds, thousands of mortals or even their own kind if it gives them a chance to eliminate the ruler of Lawrence, the bulwark between their cursed lands and the fertile kingdoms to the west. 

Castiel asked Dean to reconsider charging into such a dangerous situation until they could be sure of reinforcements from Sam Winchester’s troops mere hours behind their forces. Dean said No. Castiel told Dean that in that case, Dean should stay behind under guard and Castiel would do the job he was damned well charged with, which was to lead the Hunters into battle and take the risks. Dean said Hell No. Castiel made his argument, but once Dean gave the order, he had to follow it; it was a soldier’s duty, after all, whether one is mortal or angel. 

Now Castiel is clamping his mouth shut over his third I Told You So. Denied, the words make his jaw clench so hard it aches, just another annoying mortal frailty. Once upon a time, Castiel wouldn’t have felt the slightest twinge or discomfort in his vessel. He would have swooped down from the Heavens and alighted next to Dean instead of having to fight his way to the King’s side in the scrum. He could have smote all the demons attacking his liege with one pure burst of light instead of hacking and slashing and stomping, then he’d have cured the deep mangled cut in Dean’s upper arm with a touch instead of relying on _magic._

Max, one of the Hunter’s healers, had to take charge of the injured king once the enemy was beaten back. Castiel explained in great detail to the young mage that he had to wash his hand in water boiled with vinegar left to cool a few minutes under a clean cloth to avoid adding the burden of infection to the injury he had to heal. 

Max said he didn’t see the point. 

Castiel explained about microscopic organisms. 

Max said: “Wow, so you do drink after all. Wait ‘till the boys hear that.”

The conversation went downhill after that, until eventually a pale-faced Max hastily agreed to wash his hands as indicated to kill ‘the tiny dragons you’re worried about’, and got on with the healing. The injury is now a wide mottled bruise around one more scar on the king’s body, and Dean seems to have moved past the whole affair, focusing on all the slain demons rather than on the risk he took. 

“I’m just saying, Cas, the more of these infernal lieutenants we kill, the better. It’s been six months since we last had an incursion over the border back home.” Because they’re not even in Lawrence at this point, they’re four days into the eastern wilderness far from a friendly fortified base, and Dean thinks it’s wise to take _risks_ with his life-

“What’s that?” Dean interrupts Castiel’s grumblings, pointing to the cloth his commander is holding folded over his forearm.

“Your surcoat.”

“Really? I thought it was trashed.”

“I fixed it.”

Dean’s face goes through a series of funny expressions as Castiel shows him the repairs he made on the sleeve.

“Not much of a seamster, are you, your holiness…”

Castiel looks down at the cut made by a demon’s greataxe. Castiel has never had to sew anything in his life, at least nothing as delicate as the cotton and velvet embroidered surcoat of a king. Back in Lawrence, the kindly castle housekeeping staff darn his socks and fix the holes he also picks up in his clothes from various weapons, and quietly thank him for watching over their king when they return the articles. But he and Dean are not in Lawrence at present, or in the comfort and safety of the king’s castle. Castiel was the one to remove Dean’s bloodied surcoat to see how bad the injury was a couple of hours ago, and he was left with the proof of the close call in his hands once Max took the king away from the battlefield for healing. He sponged off the blood - most of it invisible in the deep rich brown - but the hole seemed to gape wider and wider as Castiel waited for news from Max in the makeshift infirmary. Finally he sat down and fixed the gap with a piece of cloth cut from one of his spare jerkins, the underside of which, was a reasonably clean untainted linen. He cut it as big as his concern at the time, so it widely covers the cut. He wanted to be sure the repairs held, so he darned it very carefully and repeatedly along the edges, all around the sleeve. 

It encircles the arm like a striped snake trying to eat its own tail, Castiel is now forced to realize as he sees Dean examine the repairs under the morning light slanting through the tent’s flaps.

“Sorry. I should have let someone else do it. Ask Alfie to find you a new surcoat, I’m sure you have a spare in your baggage.” 

But Dean’s already pulling the tunic over the hauberk without any further comment.

“I’m sure you have other clothes to-”

“It’s fine,” the king interrupts him, smoothing down the velvet panels with his coat of arms over his chest. “This is my favorite one, after all. I’ve always liked the fit.”

“Yes, but it looks-”

“It looks fine. Hell, it’s not like I pavane around in silk and veils at the best of times, huh? Besides.” Dean slaps Castiel on the arm as he heads towards the tent’s exit. “Next time I feel like charging ahead blindly, this will remind me: Check with Castiel first!”

“Really?” Castiel asks, both astounded and hopeful. 

“Or at least it’ll remind me to duck,” the king adds impishly.

_”Dean-”_

“But seriously.” Dean stops in the entrance, one hand on the tent flap but only to keep it shut, voice lower so that Garth and Benny waiting outside can’t overhear. “I will remember.”

“That I was right? About the strategically bad situation?” asks Castiel acidly. “Or my instincts that told me it was a trap? Or that we should never rely on information sold to us by a demon, particularly one named Crowley?”

“That you know what you’re doing. And that I should trust your advice next time. I… get impatient. I want things done.” Dean looks at the tent’s fabric as if he can see straight through it to the makeshift camp beyond. “I want these buggers dead, Cas. I want my kingdom free of them. I know it looks like I can’t sit still for more than a day, and sure, I’ll probably get bored after a few months of peace, but… I do want it done. I’ve been fighting my whole life. These motherless sons of Satan came for me, and they came for _Sam_ , they killed my mother and hounded my father into reckless battle and death.” His grip tightens on the flap. “I want to kill them, Cas. But… but I can’t just run into danger. I know that. I have too much relying on me. That’s why I need good people with good heads on their shoulders who aren’t afraid to tell me when I’m being stupid. People I can trust.”

There is a moment of silence in which Castiel can hear Garth and Benny stir outside, but they don’t come in. Castiel and Dean could be alone in the universe right this minute...

“Remember?” Dean is still staring at the tent flap. “When I saw you back in that sick ward a year ago? I said, prove yourself trustworthy, and I’ll trust you. I’ll listen next time. Okay?”

“Promise?

A glance back, a smile that wrinkles his nose and makes his freckles dance. “I promise to try to listen. That’s as good as you get.”

“It’ll do,” says Castiel with a sigh. After all, even if he can’t explain its nature, he and Dean do share a bond. Castiel is going to be around for a while yet to protect Dean from the risks he takes, and he’ll help his king bring about the peace they both want even if he has to drag it by the heels, kicking and screaming and biting, amen.

\---

Castiel expects the tear in Dean’s surcoat to be fixed the day after they get back to Lawrence. Instead, the next time he sees the king in his favorite attire, the brown surcoat has been carefully cleaned and pressed, but the cream-colored stripe is still stitched on in all its un-glory (Castiel catches the royal tailor shooting him dirty glances for an entire fortnight afterwards, and who can blame the man…) Dean dodges any attempt Castiel makes to enquire about that, until Castiel decides Dean must have meant it when he said he’d keep it as a reminder. Good. 

But a few weeks later, that off-white strip is now part of that _other_ legend. They say the Savior’s dress was actually that exact color, which is why Dean has had it stitched on as a favor. Perhaps he even found that strip on the battlefield, proof that his mysterious and beautiful benefactress is searching for him among the demons the same way he searches for her…? Some soldiers swear on their last tankard of ale that they caught sight of a gorgeous woman with a mage staff shaped like a lily walking the battlefield, striking down demons and healing the wounded, and around her arm she wears a strip of rich brown cloth. Could there _be_ any more proof that this love is destined? Is it any wonder their king remains unwedded as he looks for her? The whole of Lawrence waits with bated breath for this lady to be found, all agog in romantic hogwash that is starting to make Castiel’s teeth ache.

What’s worse is that Dean thinks the whole thing is rather funny, and doesn’t publicly go on record about the origin of the band on his arm. And he still talks about her! To Castiel! Of course he doesn’t go on about visions of lily-bearing beatifically beautiful bosomy blondes anymore, but he does occasionally talk about people falling for each other in the heat of battle, how sharing danger and saving each other’s life can be a sure sign that ‘it could be written in the stars’. Castiel tries to smother his disapproval of the whole affair. It confounds him that Dean cannot see what a chain such a life debt would represent. In the bloody stories, the princess maries the dragon-slaying knight, but other than their interaction over the body of a dead reptile, is there anything binding them in any way? Do they share the same philosophy of life? The same passions? If they met in a random tavern, would they even be friends? 

Dean doesn’t seem particularly steamed at Castiel’s lack of enthusiasm, he just quietly shelves the topic, but then he brings it up again a few weeks later almost like clockwork. It’s aggravating. It’s confounding. But Dean seems to be talking about it in terms that are increasingly generalized, and he’s stopped searching every allied camp they meet for mysterious blonde mages, so Castiel doesn’t let it concern him too much… 

… on the surface. Deep inside, the oddest thing, he feels a slow grinding emotion build, like anger and resentment towards this great Savior… who is himself! It’s nonsensical, but it’s gotten to the point Castiel dreams about it at night: the old Castiel - clothed in white robes and lights, Grace like a halo shining around his head, wings thrown out, divine being and all - alights in front of Dean and takes him away. Away where, why, for what purpose, Castiel has no idea, his dream imagination gets fuzzy on that point, but he’s left standing there in the dirt of mortality, futily shouting after the figure flying away with Dean in his arms, “Dean! It was me! I saved your life - you should be going away with me!”

Mortality. So very confusing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that I have added a tag. ‘Unreliable narrator’ was already there, ‘clueless narrator’ has joined it for reasons that should be apparent in this chapter ^^;


	4. An Ambush Most Deadly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn that a fairy-tale, like nature, abhors a vacuum, and will seek to fill in its lack of happy ending by any means necessary. Results may vary...

The demon looks ever so surprised when the blade nestles into its chest. They’re arrogant, these misshapen beings born of Lucifer, they’re always flaunting their strengths until an ex-angel plugs them full of holes, and then suddenly oh, dear, how dramatic…

“Having fun, your holiness?” Dean asks from somewhere behind Castiel. 

“Yes,” Castiel answers, which for some reason amuses Dean. Castiel has long given up on understanding the human quirk called Humor, particularly where it concerns him.

Demon felled, Castiel looks around, tallying what they still face. The bottleneck of their formation has done a good job of stopping the Hunters from being overwhelmed, though this will not last long… His little group is the pivot of the defence. Dean - who used royal prerogative to appoint himself in this dangerous position despite Castiel's objections - has cleared their left flank. The steady thud-chop-thud-chop from Castiel’s right suggests Benny is doing his customary efficient job at threshing everything on that side, and there are a lot of dead demons at Castiel’s feet. ‘Fun’ might be overstating it a little, but It is satisfying. 

The Pit was Lucifer’s greatest insult to God. Even after his death, it churns out ceaseless hordes of demons meant as twisted parodies of their Father’s angels; genderless, dimensionally-fluid beings wielding unnatural magic in lieu of grace, the dark to the angels’ light. But to be perfectly honest, despite the mockery these sick creations represented, most angels in Heaven had been subversively happy at their appearance during the first age of this world. What were the celestial beings supposed to do otherwise, sit on a cloud and preen for the rest of eternity? But here was something that was in direct contradiction of God’s final commandments, a mockery of his great work. The angels fell into ranks to defend humanity and all of creation from Lucifer and his army, a hard battle at times, but at least it was something to do.

Now Castiel has picked up that torch in his new mortal form, and with considerably more intent. It’s not theoretical anymore; he’s seen the devastation these creatures cause, the depraved sins, the rotting corpses of the possessed, the bereaved families, the pain and terror, no longer from the bird’s eye view of an angel but down here in the trenches of mortality. Castiel destroys demons not because of an absent father’s command or for duty or divinity, he destroys them because he really doesn’t like them very much. 

One of the sinful creatures approaches him from the side in an attempt to catch him unawares, because it seems even a spawn of Inferno can still be an optimist. Castiel spins and slashes, disarming the creature of its crude club. Most demons are mere footsoldiers, they don’t possess much magic, they’re the cheap cannon-fodder churned out by the Pit to pester humans while the princes of Inferno toy with their little plots. But even disarmed, this minion still has its strength, of course…

This demon, as happens at times, also has an unusually good set of instincts; instead of whaling into Castiel with its bare firsts or focusing on the commander’s sword, it fixates on the silver blade born of Heaven. Its eyes widen ever so comically (just because Castiel doesn’t understand human humor doesn’t mean he doesn't know what’s funny when he sees it; he also has a small store of garrison jokes in Enochian, but so far they have failed to translate…)

The hellion backpedals with an increasingly lilting threnody of, “-waitnonononono-” and runs like clockwork right into Benny’s spelled sword. The look on its face before it smokes out is priceless. Benny, Dean and Castiel all laugh. You find your fun where you can on the battlefield, and killing demons never really gets old. 

A clarion call in the distance heralds the end of their current savage entertainment. Dean makes an aggrieved “aww!” echoed by Jo and a few of the other younger Hunters, but Castiel, who is responsible for all their lives, does feel relieved. 

The demons stop their mad rush at the Hunters and look up the hill, to find it bristling with iron-tipped holy-water-doused arrows, salt-round loaded rifles with flints about to strike the pans, and mages starting to whisper incantations under their breath. Sam and Sir Robert sit side by side on their chargers on the cusp of the hillock, the prince’s hand held high, ready to signal and rain down holy hell. The demons thought they were the ones doing the ambushing, following the straggling group of Hunters who seemed to be so helpless far from their main forces... but for once Crowley’s underhanded information proved reliable, the main forces knew exactly where and when to circle around the marshes to make it up the hill on the demon’s left flank, and the humans have now turned the tables. 

Sam’s hand chops down.

“Hunker!” Castiel calls out, moving to protect Dean. The king, grumbling, finds himself behind a rampart of Castiel, Benny and Garth, the latter two with shields raised; Castiel himself prefers to fight with a runed sword in one hand and his angel blade in the other. Not that they’re in any immediate danger. The ambush of the ambushers has been well thought out; the possessed hordes scream as their ranks are strafed further back, causing panic, while mages are already casting a shield around the foray of Hunters to protect them from possible stray shots, it’s all going as planned-

Until it’s not.

Something evil stirs to the south of the horde’s formation. Castiel feels it dimly, like a cold damp dying sigh brushing against the faint remains of his grace. A second later, a black column of vile power shoots up like the jet of a fountain from the far back of the woods behind the demons, arcing over their ranks and towards the human lines. 

Castiel only has the time to spin around and grab Dean by the shoulders, protect the king with his very body if he must - he catches a sight of green eyes widening in sudden surprise, barely visible in the shadows as something flies overhead, blocking out the sun. 

“Shit!”

For a second Castiel thinks the attack, whatever it is, must have missed, but the horrified look on Dean’s face bursts his delusion. The attack hit, it just wasn’t aimed at them. Castiel looks over his shoulder at the top of the hill.

Sam stands there - stands, for his horse died from under him, but he’s holding strong, both hands lifted to keep the best magic shield in all the kingdoms above his head, he’s safe. Unfortunately the shield must not have snapped up fast enough to cover-

“Bobby!” Dean yells in horror. 

Castiel can’t see the seneschal from this angle, only the rump of another dead horse.

He’s running before his thoughts fully engage. Not because he wants to; certainly he’s worried about the grumpy seneschal whom he’s befriended this past year and a half, of course he is, however his duty is to protect Dean. But he already knows what Dean is going to do; even though he reacted instantly, he’s still lagging two steps behind the king, as are Garth and Benny.

“Dean! Stop!” Castiel shouts, knowing just how futile that is.

“Your- oof- your maj- ouch- wait, Dean!” Garth pants, jumping over demon bodies and crashing into stunted bushes and a few disoriented Hunters. 

Benny saves his breath. He’s known Dean the longest, ever since he trained the king in the art of warfare as a young boy. He runs in silence behind the three of them, shield held aloft to catch any arrows or spells aimed at his liege’s back.

The sky above the battlefield is a spectacular purple color. The column of evil energy that the back rows of the demons spewed forth has been countered by Sam and the other mages, and a whole lot of things are happening over their heads; dead birds fall from the sky, so does the occasional boulder of ice or ball of St Elmo’s fire, and all in all, Castiel is rather wishing he did carry a shield today… 

...Where the hell did that power spring from? These demons are meant to be a raiding horde, not an organized force, but that kind of spell is a siege-breaker, a major use of arcana, only deployed with intent. Damn it, Crowley- but if the demons had this much power at their disposal, why didn’t they hit the Hunters with it right off the bat? Was their threat too small to-

Castiel shelves all questions. Three hard strides catch him up with Dean and he runs silently by the king’s side, protecting his flank from any physical attack.

By the time they reach the ridge, the darkness has been pushed back a ways. Sam is standing with his back to the battlefield and facing a ring of warriors numbering in the five dozen.

These are not the usual troops: each one is in full plate armor with matching cream-colored surcoats bearing the same symbol, a silver fleur-de-lis. The quality and uniformity of their equipage is evident; these are knight crusaders, not mere soldiers. They form an organized and impenetrable ring of swords and steel around a large carriage in the center of their formation, but they do not seem hostile. Their large kite shields are lifted to protect both them, the carriage and the troops behind them from arrows and spells. Each shield is painted brilliant white and decorated with silver-painted palm fronds in the shape of a cross, the sign of holy pilgrims. Sam’s personal guard, looking like dowdy brown hens next to a bunch of doves, stand around and stare at them as haplessly as their prince. 

“Sam?! How is Bobby?! Where- where is he?!” Dean looks around frantically, two seconds away from running over and lifting the dead horse to peer underneath. 

Sam turns to give his brother a tragic look. “I’m so sorry Dean, I couldn't get my shield up fast enough, I-”

“Where is he?!”

Sam makes a helpless gesture. “Over there. These people showed up during our march this morning, they’re from some northern kingdom. Raspail? Rasepal? Some place we never heard of. There’s around a hundred of them. They said they came to join our alliance. I had them back in the rearguard, but they… they suddenly showed up, and two of them picked up Bo-...” His face twists in sudden pain “I couldn’t- I couldn't protect him. Dean… it’s bad. It’s real bad. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault…”

“Max!” bellows Dean, but the shout is as empty as an echo and his eyes hold no hope. Sam is one of the best magic users in the kingdom and he’s got a good head on his shoulder; if he says it’s bad, it’s bad. If he’s not called for his own healers by now, then the well-intentioned Max is not going to make a difference.

Like one, the two brothers advance towards the circle of soldiers in shining armor and well-regimented ranks. Castiel knows he’s needed down the hill, but his officers can take care of the immediate resistance, and he’s not letting Dean walk into that formation by himself. He has no idea who these people are, and though Lawrence is used to having believers from all over the lands join it in its holy war against the enemy of humanity, that doesn’t mean Castiel is going to take the intentions of this particular group on faith. 

As they approach the circle of soldiers, he sees others in the same uniform running to and fro. Those coming into the circle are carrying wounded men and women, some from the Hunters and Sam’s troops, and a few of their own white-clad knights. Then they come back out empty handed. Is the large carriage ahead the rolling infirmary of some army healers? Were they able to get to Sir Robert in time…? 

“Let me through,” Dean says roughly to the first men in line. 

They stare back in stony silence, swords drawn, shields raised. 

When Dean speaks again, it's in a voice that orders armies to charge into danger and death without hesitation.

“I am King Dean the First of Lawrence, monarch by divine right and the absolute master after god of everything east of here in a twenty day march. I am the leader of this army you have joined. I demand that you take me to your commander and to my man, Sir Robert-... Bobby!”

“Oh, now of all times is when I get to hear you sound regal?” comes a familiar grumble. “At the Holy Roman conclave last year, you were speaking like a sailor on shore leave.”

“You’re okay!” Sam blurts out. “You- you’re okay?! Are you okay? Bobby- Bobby, I saw you get- get-”

“Fried, yeah. Don’t worry, I’m fine.” Sir Robert’s surcoat is a charred memory, his hauberk’s mail looks melted in places, and his skin has a shiny clean quality that suggests it’s brand new in spots. That… is an absolutely amazing amount of healing in just a few minutes, Castiel judges, impressed. Who…?

“Dean.” Bobby walks forward, moving gingerly still. He stops in front of Dean, puts both hands on the shoulders of the overjoyed King and looks at him solemnly. “Dean, I have great news.”

“Yeah, and I’m looking right at it. Damn, Bobby, you scared me half to-”

“Shut up, idjit,” says sir Robert (who virtually raised the young king while John was off to war, it bears remembering.) “And listen. Dean. She’s here.”

“Who?”

“...You know, all this time, I didn’t really believe you.” Robert’s words are soft, a whisper of something like wonder. “I didn’t believe she existed. But she’s here, son. We found her. She’s here for you.” His hands press Dean’s shoulders once and then pull the king forwards, past the ranks of the white-clad knights who neatly fold back into an honor guard that leads their small group to the carriage. 

There’s a dozen broken and wounded men lying around on pallets, three quiet women moving from one to the other applying healing magic. Two of them wear wimples, the third has pale gold hair caught in a loose coife, just enough to keep it out of the way. She wears a white dress with the same silver fleur de lis as the knights stitched on the bodice, and she holds a silverwood staff in one hand. She is applying healing magic to a young soldier lying on a pallet and gaping up at her as if he can’t quite believe his senses. The young woman’s eyes dance as she smiles kindly and pats him on the shoulder to indicate she is done. The viciously mangled arm laying across his chest is now completely healed with barely a bruise visible, a quasi miracle. 

Her expression changes as she looks up and spots Dean staring at her. Her lips form a soft “Oh,” her eyes widen and she pales with surprise before she smiles. 

“Dean. Finally we meet again.”

“Wow,” says Garth. 

That seems to sum up what everyone is thinking based on their collectively wide-eyed expression. 

Castiel looks from Dean, Sam, Bobby, Garth and Benny to the woman and then back again. He doesn’t know her, but she must be an acquaintance if she greeted Dean by name. A powerful healer just showed up on the battlefield, that’s good news, and they are all grateful she saved Sir Robert’s life, but why is everyone looking so thunderstruck?

Castiel dismisses the question for a more pertinent one. “Bobby’s fine, shall we get back?” There’s still a battle raging down the hill.

Dean doesn’t look away from the woman for a whole ten seconds. He seems amazed at her appearance. But eventually the green eyes twitch towards Castiel. 

Castiel looks back, waiting for Dean to take command and go charging back at the demons, which is what they’re here for. It’s the sort of thing that normally has Dean’s whole focus.

Dean stares at Castiel for a moment, then he cocks his head towards the lip of the hill. 

“Cas, take charge of that. You know what needs to happen.”

Castiel turns on his heels, but stops before he takes more than two steps. “Where are you going to be?”

Dean is once more looking at the healer-crusaders tending to the wounded, with the one who recognized him standing there, hands clasped and staring at him raptly. 

“I’ll be right here,” Dean says quietly.

“Make sure you keep Garth and Benny with you.” Castiel still doesn’t trust these people, though they do seem to be on the side of angels (or rather, against the demons, which is close to the same thing these days.) He breaks into a jog and goes back over the hill. The sound of battle rises all around him, a familiar knell of violence. Castiel quickly rounds up a runner and prepares the next stage of deployment, which is to bring the Hunters back in an ordered retreat to allow clear range for Sam’s forces to fully attack the horde’s flank and catch the demons in a pincer movement that will annihilate them. Dean’s normally by his side for this… but that’s alright, Castiel knows what to do. Let Dean investigate these strange crusaders that cropped up out of the north or wherever, and Castiel will carry out their plan.

\---

Castiel gingerly feels at the bump on his head yet again. His fingers, without any form of order or consent, keep prodding at it as if to measure just how much it still hurts or to see if one more poke might somehow lessen the pain of it. That was one burly demon that caught him in the head with its mace. If he hadn’t been wearing a helmet…

In the dying light of day, he makes his way once more to the top of the hill which some nefarious spell transmogrified into a mountain, twice as high and three times as steep. His tidings are not as joyful as he’d like. Oh, the Hunters are all safe at least, and that is surely paramount. Even those who were injured in the frantic start of the battle were back on the field in record time thanks to the three powerful new healers working at their back. That’s the good news. The bad news is that a mounted contingent of the white-clad knight crusaders deployed ahead of Sam’s troops before the Hunters could fully pull back. A gallant charge, perhaps, but one that ended in a bit of confusion as the Hunters tried to retreat quicker, hampering themselves, while their presence and those of the knights forbade Sam’s cannoneers and mages from doing their worst. What’s more, a full cavalry charge of steel-plated holy pilgrims coming down the hill must have impressed the spawn of the Pit. Rather than press their advantage against the receding Hunters, as had been the plan, the demons took one look at the holy might coming at them and immediately pulled a retreat. An eerily fast one. Castiel and his fiercest Hunters gave chase when it was obvious the pincer maneuver had failed, but they could sooner catch a jack rabbit than those demons. As a result, the field is theirs, but a good deal less decorated with dead demons than Castiel would like, a paltry victory that leaves him unsatisfied. 

In addition, he’s not seen Dean all day. Castiel stomps through the rows of tired soldiers, checking on groups here and there; pleased there’s none seriously wounded or dead, truly, they made it out fine all in all, but he can’t shake a rising sense that the enemy is merely biding their time now, not destroyed.

The carriage has sprouted an elegant tent on one side, still at the center of a ring of white-clad knights. They’re not letting Castiel through, as it seems ‘the royalty’ has asked not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Castiel, tired, dishevelled, bruised and covered in scorch marks where a demonic lieutenant got in a lucky shot with a spell, feels his temper fray, but he keeps his voice stoney and uncompromising as he asks _one last time_ to be allowed to pass to see his king.

“Whoa, Cas, hold on.”

It’s not Dean, unfortunately, but Sam who comes running up before violence happens. Sam pulls Castiel away from the knights and off a little ways.

“Dean’s fine, he’s with Lutecia.”

“Who or what is Lutecia?” Castiel asks shortly.

“The Lady Lutecia, the healer we saw before. The one who saved Bobby’s life? You know?”

“We were not introduced.”

“Oh, that’s right. Fair enough.” Sam’s gaze drifts back to the tent past the armed guards. He seems distracted. He’s washed up at some point today but has not yet taken off his armor or sword, which doesn't help Castiel’s diffuse feeling of unease. The ex-angel rubs his sore head and reminds himself that he’s not at his best when he’s wounded... 

“I need to see Dean.” That will help. It always does. He takes one step towards the white-sheeted pavilion, but finds himself stopped by Sam’s hand on his shoulder.

“Dean asked me to pass along his orders, actually.”

“I’m listening.”

Sam seems to measure him with his eyes as if Castiel’s prompt reply surprised him. “How are the Hunters?”

“Fine over all.”

“Can you get two squadrons together?” 

“Yes.”

“Ready tonight? For a fast march and a skirmish?”

“Yes,” says Castiel after a second of reflection. Most of the Hunters need a break, but he knows those who always have a surfeit of combative energy and reserves to spare.

“Good. Dean wants you to go after those demons. Hound them out of this territory. Keep them from falling back and getting organized.”

“Very well,” is Castiel’s immediate and dutiful answer, though he would have preferred to get the order from Dean directly… it’s an odd little thought that drifts through the back of his mind which is mostly dedicated at present to quartermastery and battle plans.

Sam’s gaze flits to the tent again. “Dean wants you to stay out here and make sure of things. Alright? Since this day didn’t go as planned. Just, uh… he’ll send you a recall order when he’s ready for you to return.”

Castiel nods. That usually goes without saying. 

“You’re not to take any risks, okay, Cas? Dean just wants these demons on the run. Maybe if you can capture one and get some answers out of it - about that spell they used for example, or who brought them here - but only if you can do that without taking chances. Is that clear? Why… are you looking at me like that?”

“Dean wants me to stay out on the front lines without taking any risks?” Castiel echoes, puzzled.

Sam rubs his forehead, looking frazzled. “Yes. That’s exactly right. Is there a problem?”

There’s a few, but Castiel can navigate them, so he merely shakes his head.

“Good. If you run into any kind of organized resistance, you’re to stop advancing immediately. My second in command is going to set up a fall back position for you here, along with reinforcements and make-do fortifications.” 

Good, it sounds well organized - wait.

“Where is Dean going to be?”

Sam looks at him steadily. “He’s going back to the capital with our main forces.”

...Surprising. Dean’s always been more comfortable in the thick of battle than in the throne room, and can reliably be found on the field unless something truly important calls him back. But it’s not Castiel’s place to question. He nods and leaves without a further word. 

\---

It’s a miserable slog. Even Jo, Chrissy and Egan start to droop at the end of it. It’s not just the cold autumn weather, or the rain, or the mud, or the fast march on the tracks of a bunch of demons… it’s that the demons consistently fail to be there, contrary creatures. For days they are chasing ghosts. Each time Castiel’s squad gets ready to fall on a splinter of the horde, their targets seem to fade away into smoke, sometimes literally. 

Castiel doesn’t like it. At first it seems they’re doing a fine job of sweeping away the detritus from the broken foe, but the more this pattern persists, the more it feels like a well-organized retreat rather than a rout. And that speaks of intent, of organization. It suggests there's someone new at the head of the demons once more, strong enough to impose their will on the chaotic beings from the Pit, and canny enough to organize this farce of a battle. But to what end? Castiel gets increasingly cautious and paranoid, assuming the two Hunter squadrons are being drawn into a trap, but nothing materializes.

After five days they’ve reached the informal border of the eastern territory they’re in, and Castiel calls it quits. He’s not going to follow these demons further. His group returns to the fall-back position manned by Sam’s troops, but he only stays as long as it takes to make sure of their defences. Dean gave him an order to stay on the border, but he expects Castiel to use his head too, and something just doesn't feel right. Time to return to the capital, get Dean, Sam and Bobby in a room with a map, and figure out what’s going on. 

They’re all tired and despondent as they enter the capital of Lawrence two days later, so it’s a bit jarring to find the place so festive. Castiel frowns at the banners and the merriment. It turns out Dean’s troops, held to the slower pace of a marching army, only returned three days ago, and the populace are focusing on their victory in the field rather than on the short tally of dead demons. In particular they seem enchanted with how the day was saved by the arrival of Lutecia’s Crusaders.

“A thousand strong they came charging over the hill!” a soldier-turned-storyteller exclaims drunkenly at a table outside the tavern as Castiel rides by. “All in white with silver crosses on their shields and lances of light in their hands! The demons- poof! Poof, I tell you! They just vanished like night under the first spear of dawn! Poof! Am I right?!”

“Yeah! They just vanished! Never seen anything like it!” echoes one of his friends, equally inebriated. The townspeople gathered around them cheer and buy them more beers. 

That’s not how Castiel recalls it, but rumors always run rife in this city. This time the wildly embroidered tale brings with it a sense of hope, so Castiel is willing to let it slide. More reinforcements are always welcome, powerful healers too, and the Crusaders of Lutecia, since that’s what they’re called, are certainly imposing figures. Castiel spots a few of the white-clothed knights throughout the city and hears dribs and drabs about them as well. More of them are coming to reinforce the defences and join the army, it is said. They are reputed to all be polite, give alms to the poor and spend every morning in chapel. They were blessed by the Pope himself and their standard bears a nail of the true cross, they pay without haggling for their food and necessities and refuse to drink anything but water. By the time Castiel reaches the palace stables, the Crusaders are virtually ready for canonisation.

Oh, and they’re led by an angel. 

Lucetia Du Lac, healer extraordinaire. Said to be the princess of the northern kingdom of Raspail, but reputedly renounced her position in the royal family in order to organize and lead this crusade against Satan’s forces. Her purity, her faith, her power inspired those ‘thousand’ knights (Castiel knows for a fact there’s only ninety two of them at present) to join her cause from all over the continent, laying down their emblems to pick up the palms of the crusader instead, and so on and so forth, and Castiel would really like to not hear the word ‘angel’ anymore today, it’s making him feel irritable and strangely inadequate...

“A perfect angel! I knew it the moment I saw her!” Alfie warbles to a bevy of court ladies congregating in the portrait gallery. 

Castiel glowers at the king’s squire, but Alfie fails to notice. 

“Alfie, where is-”

“Tell us again!” a dowager gasps, interrupting Castiel. “Tell us again how they met!”

Alfie sounds like a bard as he regales his audience. “The first I saw her, she was kneeling in the dirt of the battlefield - but the earth wouldn’t dare soil the pure linen of her white dress. Her hair was a waterfall of white-gold splendor caught in a diadem. On her bodice was the silver fleur-de-lis that her Crusaders adopted as the symbol of their holy endeavor. Her face… you’ve seen her, her face is as beautiful as a gem, and back then it was like a dream in the midst of the battlefield. She reached out her hand, as small and delicate as a bird, and brought a dead soldier back to life with a single touch.”

“Just as when she saved our king!” gasped one of the ladies.

Saved- what?

“And she stood and said, Dean, finally I have met you again! And he, our king, looked at her and smiled in pure happiness-”

That wasn’t Castiel’s recollection- was Alfie even there for that first meeting? He can’t recall. And what was that ‘saved’-

“He said, ‘My lady, I have found you at last. I knew the Lord would lead me to you one day.’ Our liege strode up, took her hand-” 

No he didn’t-

“And said, ‘my fair lady, my savior, my healer in white. I would know you anywhere.’”

WHAT?!

“And then he- Oh, Cas! Sorry, didn't see you there. Glad you’re-”

“What are you talking about?!”

All the ladies turn to stare as if a wild animal has just stampeded through the portrait gallery.

“Uh, I was just saying how Dean met Lutecia. You know? His savior?”

“His destined soulmate,” sighs a young girl.

“His fated love,” murmurs an older countess, a trifle peevishly. 

Castiel has to make an effort to stay on his feet, the way the ground beneath him sways.

No. No, not-...not possible. 

Oh no. Surely - but surely-... 

“His majesty wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” Alfie says in the distance. “Weren’t you posted on the border indefinitely? Well, he’s in the throne room if you need to see him.”

Castiel spins on his heels and marches off. 

What is going on? Who is this woman?! Why is she _lying?!_

“Any minute now, I hear,” gasps one maid to another as they dally near the window with folded bunting in their hands, “they’ll make the betrothal announc- lawks!” The girl almost tumbles to the floor as Castiel rushes by her.

Wait- betrothed?! No, that’s just ridiculous -that’s just the usual romantic nonsense they're always pumping out. Dean- Dean didn’t say all those ridiculous things to her, Castiel was _there,_ Alfie was embroidering, they all believe that a -a blond woman in a white dress- that she’s Dean’s destined love, but Dean himself knows better and won’t fall for that, he’s no idiot, he won’t be fooled by such a blatant falsehood.

Castiel burst through a pair of large ornate doors and past the throne room’s two honor guards-

In the middle of court, Dean stands with the lady - the _liar_ \- kissing one of the dainty hands he’s holding in both of his strong capable ones, his gaze plunging into hers.

Castiel jaw drops and something goes off in his chest like ammunition exploding within a locked and bolted powder room.

Lutecia smiles. She is beautiful, Castiel distantly realizes - he'd not really picked up on that before, human esthetics are something he has to think about ordinarily. But she’s beautiful. And blonde. And a healer. In a white dress. 

Why didn’t he see it before…? Because he knew it wasn’t her, that there wasn’t _anyone_ who could actually be the savior. But how could he have missed the possibility of a plot?! Why had he left Dean alone with her?!

Lutecia’s smile slips a little as she catches sight of Castiel over Dean’s shoulder. Castiel’s not sure what expression he makes - he tends not to ‘emote’ much according to his friends, they call him stoney-faced, but if his features aren’t currently expressing his feelings right now, he’s sure his glare is. Lutecia murmurs a question to Dean, who turns and looks startled to see his Hunter commander. Startled and not as pleased as he usually is.

“Ah, you’ve not been introduced,” the king says smoothly. “My lady, this is Castiel of Eden. We’re not quite sure where that is, actually, but he’s been the commander of the Hunters for nigh on a year.”

Dean’s speaking measuredly, civilly. The gesture of his hand is regal. He’s traded his plain gold coronet for the more elaborate solid crown decked with pearls and emerald-tipped gold spikes, the one he wore to his coronation ten years ago and mothballed in the castle safe room ever since. There’s no mailed hauberk in sight, no patched surcoat either, he’s wearing a blue silk doublet over a brocade shirt instead. He looks different and kingly and he’s still holding Lutecia’s hand.

Lutecia nods gracefully, starts to say something pretty to Castiel, something inane and courtly. She doesn’t have time to finish before he’s right up in her personal space.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Lutecia gapes, as does Dean and the rest of the court.

“Cas,” starts Dean.

“Oh, it’s fine, I know how my reappearance after such a long absence seems strange,” says Lutecia with a kindly smile at Dean which she then shares with Castiel. Her voice is light, it lilts like a songbird’s, it’d be quite pleasant in other circumstances. “I’ve already explained the circumstances to your liege and his councilors, but you were not there at the time, my good sir. Yes, I was in Lawrence during that fateful spring of 1226, I had just arrived that day in the allied camp with a small contingent from Raspail to offer our assistance, paltry as it was, I with my healing skills, while my guardsmen were to join the army. But then the attack… so horrible…” Her expression clouds over, sorrow pales her cheeks, her hands flutter to her chest and clasp as if in prayer. “So many dead… but I found his majesty just in time. The good Lord himself guided my steps to that fortification, that is the only explanation. But healing the damage that the spawns of Satan had inflicted… it used up all my magic and nearly cost me my life. My faithful bodyguards had to remove me from the field, insensate.” Her graceful gesture takes in half a dozen men standing behind her. They’re in the more wearable and furniture-friendly hauberk mail rather than full plate, but the white surcoats mark them as more Crusaders. Their hands are on their swords and their eyes are on the one-time angel. Lutecia did not seem to mind Castiel’s questioning, but her men don’t seem particularly pleased. 

“- took me to the convent of Marcy, but alas my exhaustion got the better of me and I came down with a paroxysm. I was ill for months, and after that-”

The court listens to her raptly. There’s only the privy council here, a couple of ladies in waiting, Sir Robert, Sam and the honor guard to watch over Dean (why aren’t there more guards? Where are Benny and Garth? Lutecia’s men outnumber Dean’s soldiers here two to one.) 

“- only once I had assembled our crusade to bring true aid to the liege who was fighting this holy battle...um…” The lady has progressively lost her confidence and her pretty airs, her hazel eyes getting wider and warier as she stares at him. “...pray, my good sir Castiel, you seem distracted…? Is my explanation not satisfactory?”

“It is a suspiciously well-rehearsed answer to a question I didn’t ask.” Castiel’s voice, gravely and deep, crashes around the delicate pillars and hanging tapestries of the throne room, replacing Lutecia’s dulcet tones like a lout following a lady, and Castiel doesn’t give a damn. “I only want to know two things: who are you and what do you want? I didn’t ask you how you saved Dean’s life. I know you didn’t.”

Lutecia’s mouth opens in a soundless “Oh!” and gasps echo all around them.

Then Castiel is yanked back by the arm. Dean marches him ten steps away from Lutecia and back near the door with a thunderous look on his face.

“God’s tears, Cas, put a sock in it! What the hell are you going on about?”

Castiel is all too glad they stepped away from the pretty trap back there. “Dean, be careful. She has men dotted around the city and this castle - we need to figure out what she’s doing here.”

“We know what she’s doing here - haven’t you been listening? She's the healer who saved my life.”

Castiel tears his eyes away from a swaying Lutecia to stare at Dean. “No she’s not. Which makes her a liar, and probably part of a plot to-”

“Of course she is,” he is tartly informed. “Why do you think her explanation sounded ‘well rehearsed’, as you nastily put it? She’s had to give it to half the kingdom by now, starting with me, I’m sorry to say. I should have trusted her right out of the gate - but I’m a dunce in these matters at the best of times.” Dean raises his voice on the last words addressed apologetically back at the venomous creature in the center of the throne room. 

A really bad taste floods Castiel’s mouth, but he soldiers on. “Dean, you’ve had this- this fixation on your savior for a year and a half now, it’s affecting your objectivity. You need a more reasonable head to prevail on this matter.”

“Mine reasonable enough? Or Sam’s?” Bobby appears at Castiel’s side, giving him a look like thunder. “Thanks for calling your king a romantic twit, by the way, but can you concede me to be as full of suspicion as a rabbit in a fox’s den? Sure, Dean wasn’t going to interrogate the lil’ lady-”

“I mean, I asked a few questions - only natural - but then it was obvious just looking at her that she was telling the truth-”

“But I did, and quite put the screws to her,” Bobby continues over Dean’s mutter, “and she convinced me.”

“How?!” Castiel stares at the normally sensible seneschal. “How could she possibly prove who she is?!”

Bobby gives him a pugnacious look that suggests Castiel should damn well shut his mouth and believe his elders, but he answers with no hesitation. “I asked her about every step of her way during that blasted day back in May. Raspail’s reinforcements had only just arrived, they hadn’t been registered yet, but a few people remember seeing them. She’s given full account of herself and her whereabouts in the allied camp as well as the castle during the attack, and she knew every detail of what transpired in that barbican.”

“That’s all pretty much public knowledge by now-”

“She’s the only healer we’ve ever met who could have performed such a feat.” A few feet behind the old man, Sam nods vigorously in confirmation with the confidence of one who knows of which he speaks. “And I had a couple of men on fast coursers travel to the nunnery and beyond, her story all holds together.”

“Of course it would, I’m sure she covered her tracks before she ever showed up here, but-” 

“Bobby, Sam, I’ll deal with this.” Dean’s jaw is tight with anger. “Go and smooth things over with Lutecia and the privy council, please.”

“Smooth things over? After that display? Sure, and once that's done, I’ll turn water into wine and multiply loaves and fishes as an encore,” grumbles Bobby. He rolls his shoulders, smooths his beard and heads back to the pretty lady who looks like she’s about to burst into tears, surrounded by glowering bodyguards, a couple of sympathetic lady attendants and a privy councillor of the exchequer making some half-witted excuse for ‘rude soldiers, his majesty indulges them too much-”

“Dean.” Castiel focuses on the one who’s in most danger here, the man who will surely listen to him. “I’m sure she made it sound convincing, and she obviously has means and money to back up any claim she wants, but it’s not her, Dean. It’s not.”

Dean stares at him. “How the hell would you know?”

...He could say, he could _shout_ the reason why…

And then what?

_What? YOU saved me? You expect me to believe that? Why would you have never said anything before? Where’s your proof? How could you have saved me, you can’t do magic, you can’t heal and look pretty doing so like this lady can, you can just swing a sword around and say strange stuff. What?! An ANGEL? So you’re not just a liar, you’re insane!_

Castiel stares at Dean, struck mute as the conversation and accusations thunder through his imagination.

“Well?”

“...Dean, I _know._ Don’t you.. Can’t you trust me?”

“That’s enough.” Dean looks upset, feelings flashing over his features too quickly for Castiel’s burgeoning understanding to grasp. “I can’t believe that now of all times is when you decide to care-...” 

He seems to catch himself and his expression hardens. “Commander Castiel, I don’t know what bee’s gotten into your bonnet, but you will stop this now. You’ve been on the battlefield too long if you’re starting to doubt our allies and the woman who saved my life.”

“She’s not the one who saved your-”

“The woman I’ve been searching for all this time, the woman I love.”

...Evil. 

Evil magic is at work. That’s why the throne room suddenly contracts and turns into a dark space full of shadows, sharp edges and twisted corners where that last word - that word that should never be said, not by Dean, not like this - that word echoes around endlessly. Around and around and around and around-

Dean’s still talking, Castiel can hear him from a distance around one of those jagged bends.

“Stick to the battlefield, that’s where your skills lie. But as for this matter, you’ll forgive me if I do not listen to your lunacy. My pardon, my lady,” Dean adds, turning back to Lutecia, “he’s, ah, he’s not from around here, and he’s always been a bit odd. Moonstruck, really, but we put up with it, he’s good at his job.”

Castiel staggers in Dean’s footsteps. “You can’t… you can't possibly… Dean! You can’t be serious! Dean, no, no, you have to trust me on this, this is wrong! _She’s_ wrong!”

“Will you shut up now?” Dean hisses over his shoulder. “And go away. We will talk about this _later.”_

Shut up? Go away? Castiel takes in a wobbly breath, the air thick with claustrophobia as the walls continue to close in. At the center of it all is the lady with her hands over her face but not quite covering her eyes which, to Castiel, look watchful as they rest on him, then on the king, weighing, measuring... Dean catches that glance too and gives her a watery smile of reassurance, walks towards her again with words of apology on his lips. But Castiel reaches out and catches Dean by the wrist, trying to reach him, trying to- “No, Dean, I can’t- I’m not going to let you do this. She’s a _liar!_ Please listen-”

His hand is smacked away and Dean stares at him furiously. “That’s enough, _soldier._ Who do you think you are, to talk about your betters like that? You’re a hired sword - one who’s gone way too far! You need to go and beg the forgiveness of Lady Lutecia this instant, and if she grants it-”

“Oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean any insult,” the lady coos in the background.

“-if she accepts your apology like the angel she is, you’ll perhaps avoid some time in the stocks. You and I are going to have a long discussion about this _later_ though.” 

Castiel’s mouth opens around a near-silent, “A…” 

Angel… really...

“ _Apologize_ , yes,” says Dean, misunderstanding. “Then wait for me in the map room, and prepare to explain why you left your post at the border.” He is staring as if he’s hoping his gaze will knock two holes into Castiel’s forehead. “That is an order, soldier. Do your duty and know your place.”

“...That’s it. I’m done.”

Castiel looks away from the human, ignores all the others as he reaches into his surcoat. His fingers grip a small circle of gold beneath which his heart thunders like an eruption, _he won’t listen to me - I thought he liked me - trusted me - I would die for him but he won’t even let me speak - I’m nothing but a weapon to be used and discarded so yes I know my place, my liege, I know my place, a good soldier, like always, and a good soldier has to follow orders, shut up, obey, apologize and slink away._

“I quit.”

“Huh?”

Castiel tears the coin from its chain and shoves it at Dean’s chest. He’s past the staggering king in a flash, faster than any guards can react. He picks the dainty woman up by the shoulders and bears her three paces back into the nearest pillar with enough force to make his point.

In the stunned moment of silence behind him with nothing but the _ping_ of a golden coin hitting flagstones and a few gasps, Castiel’s voice is pitched low for her ears alone.

“I am leaving, human, but know this: the day he dies, be it tomorrow or in a hundred years, I will come for you.” 

Castiel drops her and turns. The lunge from the lady's nearest bodyguard misses him by a few inches. He doesn’t bother to retaliate or even look back. He ignores Dean’s cursing, Bobby’s shout to stay where he is, Sam running from across the room to apprehend him. The guard posted at the side door holds out a halberd with a menacing air - takes one look at Castiel and shies away, leaving him an immediate exit, which he takes.

A lot of noise follows him out of the castle. But Castiel is well acquainted with the place by now, he knows the fastest ways to leave without having to look at any human, which is good because as a whole he doesn’t like them much right now.

\---

The sun slants towards the horizon and dips below the level of the tallest trees. A horse browses the grass near an oak. Shadows deepen in the forest and in the clearing near a brook where a fallen angel is currently roaming around in circles, calling himself a fool in five different dead languages and for five different reasons.

Idiot! Since when are you such a wing-tied ninny?! Why did you go and expect a human to be reasonable, to put logic and caution above their damned notions of romance?

Why are you even surprised? Why are you so angry about it? 

And you left without finding out what she wants - you dunce! They’re all blind, but instead of lending them your vision- 

Why the hell did you leave him alone?! Fine, he’s a blockhead who prefers listening to a pretty woman’s lies rather than your- your blunt nonsense, but instead of helping him, you left him alone with her! Why?! Why...

Castiel’s steps have been slowing down all this time until he finally sinks down on a dead stump. 

Why…

...why does it hurt so much…?

He stares down at his hands mauling each other. A cold breeze makes him shiver. His surcoat is open. The empty space where his coin used to hang feels horribly bare.

What he should have done was not be surprised by the shallowness of humans in general and Dean in particular. He should have realized it was some kind of plot, and that it required subtlety to penetrate. He should have played nice, smiled at the viper, congratulated Dean along with the rest of the kingdom on his upcoming betrothal, and then watched and waited for her to trip herself up. Why didn't he do that?

He remembers how it felt to watch Dean kiss her hand and look at her like that. How Dean said he loved her and brought down the throne room like the walls of Jericho with that one word. 

Castiel tries to imagine spending months alongside that travesty, that abominable spectacle of a good man falling in love on one hand and the machinations of a monster in a white dress on the other. Castiel’s still calling himself an idiot, but he has a sinking feeling that he’d have not lasted more than a week anyway, even if he’d tried, before the indignation and the anger got to him. And he might have broken her ladyship's neck on the way out the door. Which… might have been the best solution for Dean, come to think of it; even the diplomatic consequences with the northern kingdoms could be mitigated if Castiel left - which he’s done anyway - and let Dean paint him as a deranged loner who has nothing to do with Lawrence anymore. Let Dean deny him, denounce him. Let Dean hate him.

Castiel swallows. It’s oddly painful. His eyes are hot and prickly.

A lonely little voice inside spirals all the way down, _it’s not fair, I saved him, I gave him everything - but that’s not what hurts, I would have done that without recognition, no, what really hurts is that I served him faithfully, I never asked for anything, never wanted anything except for the chance to protect him and be his friend, and he doesn’t want me to anymore, he doesn’t actually care, he can’t have ever cared at all to be able to turn his back on me like that, to not even want to listen to what I have to say, he’s going to live with her from now on and never talk to me the same way again, and I’ll just grow old and rusty and more and more useless defending him from a distance while he forgets my very existence, just like-..._

Just like their Father did.

Just like their Father. Leaving the boring angels behind to become fascinated with the shallow primitive humans, leaving Castiel without even an order, with all that faith, respect and loyalty unrequited. 

...With all that love, unrequited.

Castiel takes a deep burning gulp of air, pressing his face into the comforting pillow of his forearms crossed over his knees.

But putting a finger on the tangle in his heart starts the process of unravelling it. The pressure bearing down on his chest eases by increments.

It’s not fair, it’s _stupid_ , but there it is: he loves Dean. He loves his laugh, his bright soul, his casual blaspheming, his open acceptance of all kinds of people as he rubs shoulders with them, his intimacy with Castiel when he spends time with him alone. Castiel is hurt and sad that these times are over, and he’s going to miss them, but one truth is rising from the morass. The best part of Dean may no longer be for Castiel, but it still exists as long as the viper doesn’t go and poison his heart or strangle him in his sleep, and that’s not a given. Beyond anything he is to Castiel, Dean is also a Righteous Man, a good king and soldier, and he’s needed to help humanity move forward in these dark ages. More than that, he’s-... Dean. The thought of that bright light going out makes the whole world seem a great deal darker. It’s a world Castiel would no longer want to live in. 

Castiel doesn’t regret returning his coin; he can no longer be Dean’s loyal soldier, his faithful commander obeying his every order without question. But he can make sure that whatever plot is brewing isn’t going to remove a great king and his good friend, even if the latter never wants to see him again. In fact, better Dean not see him, come to that; angels are not meant to skulk in the shadows by nature, but Castiel has been rubbing shoulders with all kinds of people this past year, he’s picked up a few tricks. He’s also got abilities that defy human nature as well as a lot of knowledge about Lawrence, its castle and all the kingdoms of the continent collected from his time there as a mortal and his surveillance over the years as an angel. Time to put it all to work. After all, he’s not a celestial Being bound to non-interference anymore; he’s mortal, he’s allowed to meddle, stand as Dean’s friend, be the devil’s advocate who finds the answers the others don’t seem to want to. He’s going to investigate these so-called ‘crusaders’, this lying lady, her undoubtedly fallacious kingdom to the north and whatever she’s plotting in Lawrence. Castiel resolutely gets to his feet-

A flicker catches his eye. Something floats by, glittering in the evening. Like a butterfly made of light. It hovers near him but he can’t quite seem to focus on it. A spell? Yes, it’s a seeking sigil meant to track someone down.

A warm hope blossoms in Castiel’s chest, because Sam has been known to use this kind of spell. Maybe Dean asked his brother to help him find Castiel to tell him that the truth has already been uncovered, Castiel’s suspicions were justified, and the angel can come back, all is forgiven and everything will go back to the way it was…

“You didn’t run very far. We can’t be one hour away from the capital.”

The shapes moving forward through the trees and into the clearing are not Dean and Sam.

“If you really did know what I was up to, then you would still be running and you wouldn't stop until you reached the edge of the world. At which point you’d jump off.” Lady Lutecia settles the ermine-edged mantle over her white riding gear. “I do not make it a habit of letting people who threaten me run loose.”

The six shapes dismounting all around her are her bodyguards, but their eyes are all black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue cliffhanger music. And see you next week ~


	5. Demon In A White Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which six demons jump an ex-angel who's only recently had his heart broken, a case of Worst Timing Ever.

His back to the brook, Castiel’s gaze sweeps over the half circle formation of the six armed, armored and possessed humans trying to box him in. 

“This is convenient,” he concludes.

Lutecia’s self-satisfied smile slips. “Con-...? Can’t you see what you’re facing?”

“I can see them. I see they’re possessed. I see that this one here-” Castiel gestures at one of the demons edging near him on his right, “- has an offering sigil painted on his chest.” 

The demon stupidly stops and tries to squint down at its own collarbone, then tugs at the thongs of the hauberk it hadn’t properly closed. The offering sigil is the opposite in shape and function to the anti-possession tattoo on Castiel’s chest. The Hunters as a rule come with all kinds of decoration inked on their skin, but the flame-and-pentagram is considered a must, even Dean and Sam have one. 

“Throughout your history, the stupidest of you humans have formed pacts with the creatures of the Pit in exchange for power, inviting them into your bodies to advance their ploys despite the risks. So what I see, lady,” says Castiel as he draws his sword in one hand and his angel blade in the other, “is that you showed up far away from Dean and other innocents with nothing but some very killable demons riding a half-dozen moronic humans who have deliberately thrown away the life my Father gave them. I thought neutralizing you was going to be long and complicated, but it turns out it’s going to be neither. This is convenient.”

Lutecia’s nostrils flare. “You are facing six demons, you foolish man, and you’re nothing but a soldier. Are you delusional, that you believe you can surmount these odds? You may be-”

Castiel does not wait for the ring of enemies to pin him against the brook, he shoots off with his unnatural speed towards the one on the far right, slipping around it and placing it between himself and the other creatures. Confused at being the attacked rather than the attacker for once, the creature stumbles around dumbly and gets Castiel’s angel blade in the left eye for its pains. It dies in a red scream of light. The others stop in their tracks, momentarily shocked. They expected the lone mortal to be cowed, to plea, bargain, try to flee. 

They pause, Castiel does not. The second fiend near his position jerks into surprised motion, hastily bringing up a knight’s sword to parry Castiel’s follow-through attack, but it doesn’t seem familiar with the weapon. Ironically, the man whose body it rides would have probably fared better. The demon’s eyes are all black and it’s snarling to induce fear, its usual line of attack and defence, wasted here. Castiel bats the sword away, kicks the creature in the stomach, slashes at it with his angel blade, and when it dodges away from the shining silver weapon whose mere proximity hurts it in ways it cannot understand, Castiel brings around his steel spelled sword and sticks the body right through the gap the idiot left by not properly doing up the hauberk’s mailed collar. 

This weapon can’t kill demons, but the spellwork etched on its blade makes the body uninhabitable, and the infernal spawn smokes out with a scream to flee into the forest. The mark of offering on the body’s chest instantly chars and turns to ash, frittering away to nothing, as non-binding and impermanent as any promise of power made by Lucifer’s spawn ever is. It’s always so, yet still mortals refuse to take this as a warning...

The entire action took no more than a hundred heartbeats to complete. The other demons are still standing around in amazement while the noise of the defeated one’s retreat almost covers Lutecia’s unladylike shriek of, “-can’t possibly think you'll win!”

Castiel is not thinking in terms of winning or losing, death or survival. He is one intent, one purpose, quasi-angelic again. He has a duty, and he’s protecting Dean. Mortal, angel, it is of no consequence; the two parts of Castiel’s being are finally united in happy harmony. In truth, one need not be a great philosopher to understand that protecting a loved one by murdering demons is not something one needs to struggle to reconcile.

Besides, now it’s four on one, better odds than a minute ago. There’s also the white-clad traitress over there, but she’s human, her gifts of magic geared towards healing. And possibly witchcraft of some kind, but that takes time to set in motion, it needs potions and hexes to work - and Castiel instinctively suspects she’s not one to get her hands dirty ordinarily, she’s more the plotting manipulative type.

The other demons finally recover to sneer at him evilly. One lifts a hand and makes to grip empty air… its cunning look dissolves into puzzlement as Castiel shakes off the invisible hold that was trying to toss him to the ground. He’s got no Grace at his disposal, true, but he still has an innate resistance to that level of pitiful effort. 

“Don’t just stand there! Attack him!” hollers Lutecia.

The demons glance at each other in search of moral support, as unlikely as that is for Satan’s abominations. Fortunately when the Pit was handing out infernal merits, it seems to have missed these jesters. The summoning ritual that brought them out of Hell to possess the humans must have been a quick and dirty affair, grabbing the first half dozen fiends available, and since there are a whole lot more minions than masters down there, the chances were good that the summoner was not going to luck into the best of the best. Lutecia, if this is her doing, must have assumed six demons of whatever stripe was amply sufficient. Her miscalculation.

Castiel spins on his heels and runs towards the treeline. The demons immediately burst into pursuit, as unable to help themselves as a cat spotting a scurrying mouse. Castiel makes it to the trunk of a large sprawling oak at the edge of the clearing a mere moment before the first in a disorderly line of his pursuers reaches him. They split up to bypass the tree, expecting him to keep on fleeing through the woods, because humans always run away from them.

Castiel swings around the trunk and catches one of them on his own and by surprise. _Stab_ goes his angel blade through an unsuspecting throat right above the gorget. He doesn’t break stride and runs just as fast in the opposite direction, ignoring the demons crashing into trees and each other as they try to turn around and follow again.

His intent is on Lutecia; take that one out of the equation and whatever else may befall, Dean will be a whole lot safer.

Unfortunately the lady, now as white as her dress, manages to throw up a magical shield. It’s the classical dome-shaped shimmering sort that is better suited to repel monsters and demons, but it will still slow a human down for a few steps, and then Castiel will have one of her lickspittles sticking a knife in his back before he can reach her.

Without pause, the Hunter runs right past her to circle the edges of the shield, a frightened Lutecia spinning around to keep him in sight. The demons, more hampered by the shield than he is, have to circle wider to follow him, their steps lagging. Castiel runs right around the perimeter of the defences to catch the slowest of the three demons in the back. 

Castiel brings down his sword - but this time the demon manages to fumble a parry and step away.

The other two have reversed track and are coming at him from the side. Well, an actual exchange of blows was going to happen sooner or later, and at least it’s just three on one now.

Castiel leaps forward to keep the demon off balance and to put just a few more inches between him and the other two attackers. His blade darts out. If he can just take one more out of the fight-

He doesn’t make it. His angel blade only misses by an inch, but it misses, and the demon attacking his flank is faster than he anticipated. The creature’s weapon finds its mark, striking Castiel’s hauberk. The sword doesn’t penetrate the mail, but the blow buffets Castiel to the ground. Ribs crack.

He rolls and springs to his feet again, and has to dodge a windmill attack by another demon, red in the face and puffing like bellows; the mortal it possessed is rather heavy set. It looks frustrated, even more so when its wild blow misses. 

Every gasp of breath now yanks savagely at his ribs like stitches of red hot wire, but Castiel refuses to acknowledge it. He runs back towards Lutecia’s shield once more, full tilt. The lady shies away - and the dome of her shield goes with her, knocking down one of the demons that was trying to corner Castiel. The demon hits the ground with the loud thump of a fully armored man, and the shock breaks his gorge strap, sending his helm tumbling. Castiel dodges around Lutecia instantly to run towards the fallen foe. He brings his sword straight down in a massive blow, aiming for the exposed face-

\- savage pain in his thigh!

His sword made a mess of his opponent’s head, but the agony in his leg loosens his grip on the pommel and his sword clatters onto the convulsing body. Castiel staggers back, his muscles seizing. The demon stabbed up at him before he could kill it, the blade getting under the hauberk’s skirt to cut deep.

Panting, Castiel gets a better grip on his angel blade, pushes the pain down in his consciousness; the old reflex of an angel who can ignore the mortal vessel’s wounds for a little while longer as he faces the last two demons. 

“We got him!” one of them exclaims, lifting its sword in encouragement and turning towards the others.

There are no others, just his last surviving friend, bent double and panting like a bull. 

The demon stays poised, sword still lifted as it looks around-

At which point he gets Castiel’s thrown angel blade in the armpit gap of his mail.

The last of the demons, the heavy-set one, takes stock for a few astounded seconds. It’s all alone now… but it has a weapon and Castiel does not. An evil grin conquers the look of uncertainty on its stolen face and it lumbers forward confidently. 

Castiel waits until he can see the black on black of its eyes, and then he dodges forwards and rolls low.

The demon mostly misses him. Oh, the tip of its sword does slide along the left ringmail sleeve, slicing the linen surcoat until it catches and cuts Castiel on the unarmored wrist, but it’s not his sword arm, he barely notices, too focused on the end game. As he rolls to his feet he snatches the sword atop his erstwhile opponent in one smooth movement. He spins, the weapon slapping into his palm in halfsword grip, and he leaps at the back of the last demon before it can even come to a lumbering halt. One mighty plunge, with the full might of his momentum and his weight behind it, sends the sword’s point jamming against the padded ringmail… so much force brought to bear on one single point defeats the mesh, half a dozen rings snapping to let the blade slip in. Not very far, most of the blow’s force already spent, but enough for the spellwork on the blade to kick in. 

The demon smokes out with a low-toned bellow The body falls to the ground with a meaty thud.

And done.

Castiel breathes in and out raggedly, fighting the pain in his ribs, then he quickly rips off the piece of surcoat sleeve that was sliced into rags a minute ago and uses it to bind his thigh, putting tourniquet pressure on the wound. It’s not an artery, but it’s still going to make him faint if he doesn’t slow the bleeding.

And he’s not quite finished yet.

Castiel hobbles over to the before-last of his prey, yanks the angel blade out of the body’s armpit, grips his sword in his right hand and turns.

“Now. As I said, lady. Convenient.”

Lady Lutecia is still holding up her shield. She must know it won’t slow a human down for more than a few seconds, but those seconds feel like an eternity when you are mortal and they are your last… Castiel advances towards her without mercy. He’s ending this now.

Lutecia is yelling at him. Insults, threats of retaliations by ‘her masters’, an order to stay away from her - 

It covers for a few more moments the sound of hoofbeats galloping through the forest in their direction. 

Castiel mutters a brief imprecation in Enochian. That can’t be good. Lutecia has more troops in town, they must be coming here - he needs to finish this now!

But catching on to her last hope of reprieve from justice, Lutecia puts her all into the shield - it pulses in the air almost solid - and shrieks: “Help! Help! He’s here! Come help me!”

Castiel lunges at her - 

\- his abused leg cramps around the cut and spills him to the ground.

Grimacing with self-directed fury as much as pain, Castiel gets to his feet. The sword feels too heavy right this minute, he lets it slip to the sod with a thud. He only needs his faithful angel blade, an extension of himself from times immemorial and the one thing he wants with him if this is his time to leave this mortal coil in a minute-

Riders burst out from the edge of the trees riding full throttle. A flickering spell-sigil precedes them, leading the way. But it’s not a bunch of white-clad demons. It’s Dean! And Sam, his men and a dozen Hunters!

For a moment like a miracle, Castiel feels utter relief burst through his chest. But it's short-lived. 

“Dean!” Lutecia cries out, sounding frail and young and utterly terrified. “Save me! This hateful man attacked me! He had demons with him - they slaughtered my friends!”

...Forget Enochian; as Castiel stands over the crusaders he killed, a bloodied dagger pointing at the woman Dean loves, the very human thought winding through his head is, “Well, shit…”

Dean’s black charger rears under the effect of a sudden curbed rein bringing her to a halt. His eyes are wide as they take in the sight of the clearing, widen even more as they settle on Castiel. 

Castiel stares back helplessly, swaying where he stands as the full awful tableau becomes apparent to him. The pure purpose that’s been driving him all this time splinters apart and the world is once more a fiendishly complicated and painful place. 

How on earth is he going to explain all this…? Dean didn’t believe him before, how the hell will he believe him now? The marks of offering- maybe one of them, by chance, didn’t fade with the lifeforce of the victim this one time…? Right, so in short, Castiel’s life depends on a miracle, and he is well placed to know just how empty the heavens are, and that there are no such things as miracles anymore...

“Benny, spread out! Look for more!” Dean barks as he slides from his saddle and draws his sword. Benny and the Hunters immediately disperse.

With a sob of relief, Lutecia drops her defences and runs towards him, arms held out. Castiel is so drained by his battle, so stunned at this shocking reversal of fortune, that he can do no more than twitch in protest, lift his blade only to let it sink like an anchor again.

“Oh Dean! I was so scared!”

No, Dean, no-... but why would the king listen to him? 

“Dean, careful! Wait for me!” Sam barks behind his brother, still getting off his own horse. 

...Now would be a good time to pray, really, but Castiel knows how useless that is, there’s nobody out there who’ll intercede, and in lieu of prayer, the only thing going through his mind right now is a long string of hopeless tired curse words…

The warrior king only takes the frightened woman briefly by the shoulder, eyes flicking over the clearing, the trees, the dead men sprawled around, before settling on the danger up ahead - on Castiel. He moves Lutecia back and behind him with nothing but a short, “You two, watch her,” over his shoulder. Two soldiers who’d been following their king, stop on either side of the delicate woman, swords drawn to protect her. Sam quickly joins them. 

Castiel lets his angel blade slip from his fingers. It feels… too heavy. And maybe if he’s not threatening, he’ll survive a few more seconds and have the chance to plant a precious seed of doubt in Dean’s mind. “Dean-”

“Is that your blood?” Dean asks sharply, staring down at Castiel’s trousers. The left leg is painted a pretty solid red by now.

“I, yes, mostly, uh, Dean, they were demons,” says Castiel, an already tired man rolling up his sleeves in view of lifting an entire mountain of doubt. 

“They were?” But Dean doesn’t seem all that interested in explanations and doesn’t even look their way, he tries to grab Castiel’s arm to restrain him instead. 

Castiel moves his injured wrist away, still pleading, still trying. “Dean, please believe me, she attacked me, I told you, she’s a liar-”

Dean makes another grab at his wrist. “Cas-”

“Dean, I swear I-”

“Cas, stop moving, for the love of god, and let me look at those cuts!”

Castiel’s perception - wobbling on the edges from the emotions thundering through him as well as a bit of hemorrhage - finally catches up to events.

...He wasn’t praying at all, yet somehow… a miracle has occurred anyway…? Dean’s sword is back in its scabbard. He’s not grabbing Castiel by the collar to shake answers out of him, he’s checking the cut on the wrist and looking worriedly down at Castiel’s leg.

“Uh…”

“How bad is it?”

“I… it’s fine…But Dean, Lutecia-”

“It’s not fine, you’re bleeding. And I know, Jesus wept, I know she’s a honey trap, I’ve known from the start.”

“What?”

“WHAT?!”

That last was a shriek from over where the two soldiers are protecting Lady Lutecia-

\- where the two soldiers are _holding_ Lady Lutecia, while Sam stands before her, one hand lifted in preparation for spellwork if required, sword pointed at the dainty white bodice.

What….?

Dean, who was checking the pressure of the tourniquet on Castiel’s leg, straightens up and gives her an ugly look. “That’s right, your ladyship. Sorry, the player’s been played. I had you figured out from the moment I saw you.”

“What-”

“Need help?” says someone off to Castiel’s right. It’s Max, prosaically ignoring the tableau of king, lady, prince, soldiers and one stunned and reeling ex-angel. 

Castiel makes an unintelligible noise. Max takes it as an assent, kneels and puts his hand on the thigh injury, making Castiel flinch.

Lutecia’s gaze flits from the soldiers to Sam to Dean - for the barest instant, she’s not pretty, not a lady, she’s a rat in a trap, but she recovers so quickly that Castiel thinks he’s the only one who noticed (the fact he doesn’t like her may be coloring his perception…)

“Dean...please…" Her voice is artfully faint, wavers to perfection. "You can’t mean it… You… you’re breaking my heart.”

Dean, who’s watching what Max is doing, snorts without even turning around.

“Dean… this isn’t you… You’ve obviously been poisoned against me by that- that vile man who summoned demons- who murdered crusaders blessed by Rome itself! The holy conclave which sent me as its representative will surely not stand for this. The diplomatic repercussions-” 

“That’s assuming they’ve even heard from you before.”

“If they heard from me?! What do you mean?!“

"I mean we only have your word that Rome even sent you. Well, maybe they did. Even the devil can quote scriptures, after all, and fool those myopic fools of the conclave. In which case they’re in for one hell of a shock when I get in touch with them."

"How can you say that?! How can you-... I was trying to- to stop this man from leaving you! It was so clear you care for him deeply and his departure upset you, so I caught up with him to try to reconcile the two of you - but he attacked me! He tried to kill me! Me! Your savior! Oh Dean, can’t you see?! He’s been sowing mistrust between us from the moment he first saw me-”

“Max, is he going to be alright?” Dean asks tightly.

“Pshaw, he’s fine already.” Max gets to his feet, cracking his knuckles. “It wasn’t all that deep. He’s indestructible, is our commander. Maybe I should feel sorry for the demons. Only bringing half a dozen? What were they thinking? Castiel, keep pressure on the wrist, it’s not too bad, and I want to make sure I hold back some magical reserves in case there’s fighting later. Ride back slowly, don’t undo my healing on your thigh, okay? The ribs are going to hurt too, I’m afraid. I’m not as good as the lil’ lady over there when it comes to stitching things up, but I will gladly eat my humble pie, knowing that at least I’m not an evil scheming harpy. See me tomorrow for a follow-up on the leg, take a couple of days rest in the meantime, and you’ll be fit to run a race by Sunday.”

“...There’s to be fighting later?” Castiel asks, mind zeroing in on the most important word in that list of advice.

“Strewth, not if our liege’s secret plans came to fruition, no, take your ease.” Max looks theatrically put-upon as if he’s having to physically hold Castiel back from charging into battle. Castiel, who’s so tired and bewildered that he’s about to fall to the ground in a heap, has no intention of charging anywhere and is glad to hear that he might not have to.

“My liege!” Lutecia pleads.

“Here, I’ll deal with the wrist.” With some enthusiasm, Dean rips a strip of blue silk off of his doublet to bind the injury on Castiel’s left arm, putting pressure on it. 

“Dean!” Lutecia pulls against the hold of the guards. “Dean! You can’t treat me like this! I saved your life!”

“Here we go,” growls Dean, looking away from the blue silk bow he’s tied and back to Lutecia. “Fine, lay it out, your ladyship. Let’s go over this once more, that famous day where you say you saved me.”

“I told you everything,” says the lady with the dramatic arm fling of one baring their chest as there is nothing hiding in their heart.

“Huh-uh. You found me in that barbican and you healed me up.”

“Yes, and I will never regret it, Dean, whatever you may believe.” Two crystal tears slide down the perfect cheeks. The soldiers on either side of her are looking askance at each other and their king as if fearing there’s been some kind of mistake and they’re going to get chastised for their presumption later.

Dean’s expression doesn’t change a whit, nor the toothy grin he’s borrowed from the wolf. “Well then, what did I say?”

“...I...I’m sorry?” 

“Nobody knew this until now. I held this one detail back for just this reason, to make sure some pretty face in a white dress wasn't going to try n’ play me for a fool. Not even Sam or Bobby knew about this to start with, and they still don’t know the exact detail, the crux of the matter. Only I do. And you, apparently.” 

“Kn-know? Know what?”

“You should know what I said to the person who saved me that day.”

Lutecia is quite white in the face now, but she soldiers on. “Oh, Dean, you muttered something, certainly, but you were so weak that I couldn’t-”

“Blind, head spinning, lungs heaving, half delirious and bleeding all over the floor, I know, I was there, but my memory of that nightmare is just fine. My savior didn’t say anything - certainly nothing in that pretty voice of yours, nor did I hear any of the bodyguards you said helped you away afterwards. But _I_ said something, and I remember it quite clearly. One word, lady, repeated twice, and clearly heard too because my savior shushed me with a hand to my mouth to bid me save my strength. Can you tell me what I said?”

Lutecia looks hunted, while Castiel’s head spins, a single ragged word from a year and a half ago echoing through his memory, _Wings..._

“You didn’t make sense, Dean, you were-”

“I made sense. It was one short word. Said it two times in a row. I’d lost my eyes, not my tongue. And come now, you were so exact in all the other details you trotted out for me when you were trying to prove your bona fide last week. So, what did I say?”

“It wasn’t clear, I think you said Thank You - but it might have also been Who, or Help, or Water,” says the clever little snake, hedging her bets.

“Nah, it was definitely none of those things, but good guess, thanks for trying. Sam, get her out of here and figure out what the fuck she’s up to, will ya?”

“With pleasure,” Sam declares, looking down at Lutecia like a lion at a lamb, but then he turns back with a frown. “Wait, what are you going to do?”

“I’ve got something to sort out,” says Dean, expression carefully controlled, “and I’m not waiting for yet more disasters or misunderstandings. We’ll meet you back at the castle.”

“Ah, no, not with demons running around these woods.” But then Sam’s gaze flickers towards Castiel of all people. His eyes soften. “Tell you what, we’ll wait for you at the other end of this clearing and start asking the lady some questions in the meantime. We’ll be within earshot if you yell for help. Come over when you’re, er, when you’re ready.”

“Good.” Dean turns on his heels without bothering to see if the men leave as ordered and walks off in the opposite direction with a simple, “Cas, come over here. And keep that cloth on that injury.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel insists, but Dean stops dead in his tracks, turns and glares until Castiel has put pressure on the cut on his wrist and they’re fifty feet away from the rest of the troops behind a small copse. 

“Uh, Dean, how-”

“I’m sorry, you have every right to be angry, really angry with me, but I just didn’t have the time to explain to you- I knew she was poison the day I met her, but I only told Bobby and Sam, you weren’t there at the time, you were busy winning the battle.” The words are all coming out in a rush, Dean’s rubbing his forehead and not looking Castiel’s way. “Then when I realized- I had to send you away to the border, you understand, it was obvious she was vying for my kingdom by way of my heart, the little minx, and there was no way I’d fool her into believing I was falling for her charms if you were- um…” His eyes flicker towards Castiel’s and away again and he doesn’t finish his sentence. Castiel, head spinning, can’t put anything more together than ‘charm, kingdom, what?’

“Then you appeared out of nowhere today and- and started accusing her right there in the throne room - I panicked. We were still trying to figure out if she had help among the other crusaders or newcomers- or even among my own courtiers since she was so slick, this had to be an inside job in part. So I- I tried to get you out of there, ordered you to shut up, told you we’d talk about it _later,_ I swear I was going to explain as soon as we were alone - but I’m sorry, I said- I said such horrible- and shit, you blew up and then blew out of the palace and- and goddammit Cas, you almost got _killed._ And I… I hurt you. I’m so, so sorry.”

Castiel stares at him agape, buried in the hurried words that flip the entire afternoon on its head.

“But I do trust you. Um, more than, uh, more than I can say. It’s… uh. Maybe I should have seen it coming. Part of me didn’t think you’d care who I courted, but, well, I sure know how I’d react if you suddenly showed up with a fiancee.” 

“...I am not going to show up with a fiancee. Am I?” Castiel has to ask from the midst of his confusion.

Dean doesn’t answer, just gives him a steady look. 

“I don’t understand. You… you do trust me?” 

“Yes.”

“But why didn’t you listen? Why didn’t you-... I mean, you already knew she was up to no good, so why-...”

Dean grimaces. “I was trying to figure out what the hell she wanted exactly. And we had to neutralize the men she had with her. Turns out most of them are legitimate, they’re just thick-headed knights who think they’re fighting the good fight, but there’s a few bad apples in the lot. Bad and very dangerous. I hope we got them all. Bobby’s back in Lawrence in charge of the mess. We were hoping to have more time to separate the wheat from the chaff - but when the snake and her shadows went missing right after you left, I had a bad feeling, a real bad feeling… Thank god I listened to my gut.”

“Huh,” is all Castiel can think to say.

Dean starts pacing in tight captive circles, a surfeit of wretched energy in every harsh movement. “Yeah, the whole thing smelled fishy right from the start, up to and including that demon raid, Bobby getting injured then miraculously healed, and that damned white dress she just happened to favor. All way too convenient. I _knew._ Hunter's instincts, I tell you. I verified my hunch once she told me all about her so-called rescue while leaving out a few crucial details only my real savior would know. Yeah, she was fool’s gold without a doubt, but why? At best, she was just a conwoman. At worst, though… well, yeah, turns out it was the worst. It reliably is in my life. But she was good. Once I told Bobby and Sammy why she had to be lying, they worked hard to uncover her machinations from the shadows, but she’s clever, and I bet at times they thought I was a lunatic to doubt her. Hell, even I found myself wondering if maybe I wasn’t mistaken. Everybody around us was completely charmed. Except for you. You had her figured out for a fraud immediately.” Castiel finds himself the recipient of a quick interrogative side look. 

Castiel realizes he’s going to have to explain himself now, tell Dean the truth and the devil take the rules. He drags the words from inside like a weighted anchor. They are going to change everything as surely as a Lutecia would. 

“So you do trust me?” he asks heavily, almost hoping Dean will say ‘no’ because then he’s got an excuse to give up before he even starts.

“Yes, Cas, I do,” Dean says simply, and despite the ripped doublet, the lack of a hauberk and the fancier crown, it’s the old Dean Winchester again, the bow-legged straightforward man Castiel is familiar with. “I trust you with my life. Hell, Cas- even if she had been the one to save me, I wasn’t going to marry her, you know that, right?”

“I do?”

Dean’s eyes widen, his mouth turns down at the corners. “...I really hurt you.”

“Well, yes,” says Castiel, confused at the switchbacks in the conversation. “I thought you’d fallen in love with her.” 

“Look, I know I said a lot of horse shit about my mysterious destined person this past year, but I was mainly joking about that, trying to get a rise out of you. For real, that was never going to happen on the spin of a ha’penny anyway. Cas, if my savior does show up tomorrow and she - or he - can actually prove they’re the one, what do you think will happen?”

“I’m hoping you’ll look into their claims carefully?” Castiel dazedly visualizes another Lutecia, but not a perfidious one this time, somebody honest who might actually deserve the way Dean looks at them and kisses their hand- wait, no, any claimant would have to be an imposter, so Castiel would have to once more try to convince Dean -... and argue and-... and be doubted and-... Castiel can’t even figure out which possibility hurts him more, and he feels so very tired… He needs to… he needs to give up. He needs to tell Dean the truth, and accept that he’ll never know, going forward, if Dean’s putting up with his bluntness and eccentricities for his sake or only out of gratitude...

“Yes, yes,” Dean says shortly, flapping his hand to peremptorily shoo away his putative savior from the conversation, “I’ll make sure I got the right person this time, and I’ll reward them and give them anything they ask for that’s mine to give, they can have a fortune, they can take over the royal hospice tomorrow, hell, they can join the nobility if they’re not completely insane, and maybe end up on the throne one day. But they can’t have my heart. That already belongs to somebody else.”

“Who?” Castiel asks in alarm. “Dean, you have to be careful, the demons, they’re getting clever, they’re using tricks now - or worse, they want to win you over to their side. Who is this person?”

Dean gives him a steady look. “Someone I trust with my life. This isn’t some fairytale bullshit, no magic moment, no love at first sight - though there was some attraction from the first, I gotta admit. But this is someone who won me over the traditional way, by being faithful, interesting, helpful, selfless, funny in a way, and a great listener… a good friend who did not return my affections, or so I thought until he blew up in a fit of furious anguish that almost knocked a hole in the castle wall. I hurt him badly because I was being too clever and didn’t think how my ploys might affect him, and I almost lost him today and thinking about that makes me want to- to die. But I hope he’ll forgive me, and… and maybe give me a chance now, to see if we could… if we could become more than we are at present.” 

That long declaration has to run through Castiel’s mind repeatedly, waving little semaphores and illuminating certain key words with pigments and gold leaf before he feels safe enough to draw the remarkable conclusion.

“Me?!”

“Well, yeah-”

“Me?! You - me?! Without - without - not because you’re grateful or- or you need me or-.... Just me?”

A twitch of a smile moves Dean’s lips, an expression as hopeful as the dawn. “Yeah, just you.” 

“Not because I’m useful or obedient or a - a good soldier?”

“What? No, of course not.” 

“And you’re sure it’s not- not gratitude or-....”

“God’s tears, no.” A hand reaches for his, winds their fingers together. “Er, why gratitude? I wasn’t actually going to turn my back on her ladyship - though I suppose you couldn’t know that. And… don’t think I”m dismissing everything you’ve done for me, Cas, but that’s not why-”

“No, it’s not.” Castiel grips the hand in his, staring into Dean’s eyes. “I don’t want it to be. I never want chains of - of obligation between us, Dean. I want you to be able to leave me at a moment’s notice and without looking back.”

“Uh, what’s that now?”

“That way each day with you will be a gift, freely given, always treasured. I won't ever have to doubt that you feel bound to me for the wrong reasons."

“...Riiiight. Did any of those demons hit you in the head? I don’t see any bumps or bruises there, but this is still a little more than your usual level of strange…”

“Yes, I am strange. I’ve also never been in a relationship before. But you know all this already and you still chose me,” says Castiel, breathless with the wonder of it all. 

The smile is now full on and as lovely as the Garden of Eden has ever been. “I sure did. Ah, Cas, if I may… I would really like to kiss you now.”

Castiel’s seen that done quite a lot among the Hunters and the townsfolk. He finds the concept unappealing; a year and a half after his fall, eating is intriguing to him now - so many flavors! And textures! - but it seems that should really be what mouths are for. The thought of food particles and saliva coming into contact is vaguely unsettling. 

The fastidious fallen angel thinking briefly about all this is at the far, far back of Castiel’s head right at the moment; Castiel the newly minted human, the perpetual outsider with a heart that feels like it’s finally found a home, is already nodding eager consent and tugging Dean forward by the hand he’s captured.

The other hand settles on his cheek, mouths touch and meet.

It’s got nothing at all to do with saliva and food particles and possible bad breath and everything to do with bodies coming into contact, shivers of touch that bring sunshine improbably bursting through the first shadows of twilight, a soul-light like thunderous music and victory and pleasure and flying through clouds all rolled into one and bursting out on Castiel’s tongue. 

Castiel knows his arms are awkward as they pull the king closer; he tries to figure everything out all at once and he’s not doing very well, and yet Dean’s lips perk beneath his in a smile which brings out all kinds of new shivers and emotions bursting forth. No wonder humans are so fond of doing this, and all the rest as well. It’s like a great big burning sun dawning inside of him, that makes his mortal heart hammer and all sorts of electrical impulses run up and down his spine. Maybe… 

...maybe there’s something to this romance thing humans are obsessed with after all. If so, this requires further investigation. It seems Castiel still has a whole lot to learn down here, and he can’t wait. He really can’t wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Egads, that was fun to write. I love action, and Dean fumbling with feelings, and Cas getting knocked upside the head with them. 
> 
> Now, originally this was going to be the end of the fic. The theme of the work is that Dean never does connect Cas with his savior, this little thread of plot remains unpulled, never resolved as sometimes happens in real life, and this might be a good thing in final; gratitude and a life debt are dangerous connections to mix with love, etc. 
> 
> However, like most of my stories, this exists in my head going further back than when I started it and going all the way into the future as fully realized characters; so I know what happens next, and though I’m happy with it the way it is now, I also have a coda in mind… If you don’t want to read it, if you feel it’s best to stop here, feel free to skip the next chapter release and consider this the end of the fic. If you do want to read it… stick around, it should be out next Saturday, bar any distractions :)


	6. Not the Fairytale Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we are reminded that real life usually requires a few more details than Happily Ever After.

There’s been times Castiel wished he could have Dean all to himself; no duties, no soldiers, no campaign against demons, no court, no clucking dowager duchess looking at them as if she knows _exactly_ what the pair of them were doing all night long in Dean’s bed…

‘Be careful what you wish for!’ That’s a human expression. Castiel is starting to master those and even use them appropriately after so many years. He blows on his stiff fingers, looks around the desolate night-shrouded mountains covered in a powdery blanket of snow, the tiny fire, Dean shivering in his cloak on a nearby stone with no pillow but his horse blanket, and thinks, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

“In the stories, they bundle up together naked under their blankets to survive nights like this,” Dean says out of the blue. His breath is powder-white until it reaches the small cone of heat projected by their measly fire. 

“Really.”

“Indeed. Though in the courtly tales, the knight puts his sword between himself and his lady in the name of honor.”

“Right.”

Dean leers. “I always knew that was a euphemism. Putting his sword.”

Castiel snorts.

Dean wraps the blanket around himself tighter. “...Though in these circumstances, even the lustiest of knights and ladies wouldn’t do a thing. My own sword is currently the size of an embroidery needle surrounded by two grapes.”

Castiel can’t help himself and buries his snort of laughter in the furs he’s wrapped in. His counter of, “Just don’t get frostbite on your needle,” comes out muffled.

Dean grins proudly. He seems to take personal pride in making Castiel laugh, a feat since the latter still doesn’t fully understand humor, ten years since his fall (chances are he’ll never fully grasp it at this rate…) 

The fire crackles. Its warmth is pitiful. 

“Let’s not get frostbite anywhere,” Castiel says a bit more soberly.

“We’ll be fine.”

“I don’t share your-”

“The monastery has a healer on hand. Just keep any bits that fall off, they might come in handy.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. Dean smirks. Ten years of this; easy breezy teasing, serious back and forth, deep philosophy, small tender words, impious ribaldry, all and every bit of it like music, like something repeated over and over until it’s known in the bone yet always beautiful and harmonious.

Castiel rubs his hands. Despite his thick gloves, his fingers feel numb. 

“Is this healer any good? Because I think we’ll need him. Or her.”

“He’s very good. I should know. Came fighting this way before, back before I knew you. Nasty battle near Sazchink, small affair but deadly. A lot of my men had need of his services that day.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Fall of… 1224 if I remember. Benny mentioned yesterday - before we had to split - that this guy is still in the same holy house and kicking around just fine, and it seems he brews the best eau-de-vie this side of the Holy Roman conclave. Now that will go down well… But fear not, he’s fifty years old by now with a large hairy nose and a voice deeper than yours, he’s not going to claim the part of a fair healing damsel dressed in white.” 

“Haven’t had one of those in a long while,” Castiel says idly once he’s figured out what Dean is referencing.

“Yeah, and that really hurts my feelings.”

Castiel gives him a pointed look.

“You know you’re the only one for me,” says Dean with a charming grin that would win Castiel’s heart all over again if it didn’t already belong to him in the first place. “But think of my poor bruised ego. Back when I was king, they were hurling themselves at me with their flowers and white dresses, and now that I’m nothing but a poor errant crusader, I’m stuck here alone in the snow with you. It’s obvious what they were after all this time, and it wasn’t my pretty green eyes.”

“Your eyes are very pretty and very green, and your romantic story still resonates throughout the lands, as you well know. Many of these naive young girls would still love to make a bid for those eyes if they could, they just don’t recognize you under all that armor and grime.” Castiel says the last word pointedly; he’s hoping the monastery will do the christian thing and indulge their guests with enough hot water for proper baths.

“But my eyes are only for you, so the grime and the armor stays.” Dean reaches out without looking and knocks on the reinforced wood of his palm-crossed shield like a superstitious gesture.

It’s been five years now since Dean declared before his court that he has a higher calling, higher even than being anointed king. The crusade against the demons is a lifelong commitment. Lawrence is peaceful now, but other lands are still under threat. 

That’s how the tale goes, that’s how the bards will remember Dean Winchester the First, known as King Dean the Brave, or Dean of the Holy Sword and Rifle. And one has to admit that ‘I am taking up the cross of the crusade’ sounds better than ‘I get bored in a throne room, there’s demons to fight, and I want to make sweet love to my male companion in peace without the privy council pestering me about weddings and heirs, so I am abdicating in favor of my brother who is married with a son now and a good deal better at all this politicking anyway, fare thee well, sirs, fare thee well!’

Sam has since then completed the work Dean started; Lawrence is an elective monarchy, and the congregation of nobles did the smart thing and chose Samuel The First, known as King Samuel the Wise, to stay on the throne. Dean and Castiel can both travel in peace knowing that Lawrence is going to be absolutely fine. Better off than they are at this rate, with their rears in the snow in these dangerous Carpathian mountains, trying to rejoin the ragtag army of Hunters (now volunteers from all nations forming a sort of rough-hewn crusade, but without any religious claptrap wanted or needed, thank you.)

“...Are you sure we shouldn’t push on to the monastery?”

Dean’s response is muffled by the edge of the blanket. “In this snow and without a moon to light the way? Along a path bordered by cliffs? I’m sure.” 

Silence falls, companionable on the back of many, many other shared nights. Castiel hums a hymn to himself softly under his breath. Dean stares off into the darkness.

“Hey, Cas...”

Silence.

Castiel finally looks away from the fire to see if Dean is going to add anything. “Hey what…?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Just… talking about that healer... it just reminded me of something. Something I occasionally-...” Dean seems to seize himself and says with a surge of energy, still staring off into the night: “Let’s talk or we’ll fall asleep and freeze. I never told you - I never told anyone - what I said to my savior on that fateful day in 1226.”

This comes so far out of the blue, Castiel can do no more than gape.

“Always kept that under my hat, as a test of honesty for any supposed savior who pops up, but if that man or woman hasn’t shown yet, so many years and so many tales later, well, they must have a good reason. But I’d like to know, you know, I’d just like to know they’re alright. That’s always nagged me, that they might have died that day. I personally checked all the ones who fell, and all were castle staff or soldiers I knew, or were recognized by their friends as people who could not cure a wart.”

“Why are we talking about this?” Castiel asks uneasily.

Dean is still staring out in the night. “Just talking. Anyway, yeah, it’s bothered me all this time. You know I’m not going to fall in love with this person, of course, but-”

Memory slams into Castiel. Ten years have passed, ten years full of love and joy and laughter and occasional arguments and a million other moments, small and large… but he still remembers those first months of being mortal. Confused, isolated, alienated, feeling bound to this human king by something intangible, and fearing it was nothing but chains of obligation. Then the shattering lightning out of blue sky that was Lutecia… the fear of losing Dean… 

These memories shine brighter than the billion years of being an angel that precede them, they feel more relevant by far. There’s even times when Castiel almost… not forgets, no, but he only remembers intellectually those unchanging unyielding millenia of cold duty, all melding into a blank wall of Before, one that he lost - or escaped - to start anew in the world. His memory, his very life truly started the day he met Dean. His lover and his friends accept this, that Castiel cannot talk about his past, that he has none in a way; and as long as his future is with them, they seem content with that. 

“-so yeah, hah, I have this, well, almost superstition about sharing the full details of that day. Because if I never say anything, and nobody else knows, then it’s surefire proof that the person who comes forward and repeats my words to me is the person I owe my life to-”

_Owe your life to… Dean, that is such a heavy burden for both you and your savior, if you think about it..._

“-but I have no idea why I stayed mum about it with the one man I trust above all else, and since it just so happens we're utterly alone right now, I thought I’d tell you-”

“DON’T!”

Castiel leaps up and hurries off, hands covering his ears, heart thundering in his chest.

He stands there, loose frost prickling the skin of his face, breath solid white. The darkness around him is like pitch, the utter void of it only magnified by the faint relief of dancing light reflected from the fire and ghosts lying motionless in the distance, the snow-capped top of mountains...

Eventually he has to look back.

Dean sits where he left him by the fire, in that tiny island of light and warmth in the darkness, watching him steadily, expression unreadable.

“Don’t… don’t tell me. You shouldn’t...” Castiel goes back and sits on the snow-dusted log, hands still near his ears just in case, and tries to think of a reason why he wouldn't want Dean to talk about it. “You… you kept it a secret all this time for a reason… Um… I would never betray you of course, but- but no need to tempt fate…”

Silence. A silence that says almost as clearly as Dean could, ‘You’re the least superstitious man I know, why are you of all people talking about fate?’

Castiel sits on his log and inwardly sways.

Why…? 

From the very beginning, he has never wished for the burden of Dean’s gratitude. Now that they’re so close, share a bond so strong and real, he would never want things to change between them. So… why did he stop Dean? Why didn’t he just let the king trot out that single secret word - _wings_ \- so that in the entirety of all the kingdoms on earth, Castiel will become the one person to _not_ be able to prove he saved Dean’s life - an achievement he never did wish to take credit for? 

But if that last is true, really true, he would not have stopped Dean right now…

Castiel comes to a strange realisation. That he wants Dean to love him for himself, certainly, but… he’s a little weak inside. A little scared; a strange fallen angel with no sense of humor still somewhat at odds with most of humanity he now belongs to... He’s not willing to give up that other bond between them, however unworthy that is of him, however unwished for the type of relationship would be. There would be nothing good that’d come from it… yet Castiel cannot utter the words, ‘sorry, I interrupted you, you’re right, it doesn’t matter either way, so what did you say back then?’

Now that he has confronted it, the knowledge of his shameful frailty slinks away. It is tiny, an old fear of abandonment that comes like a backhanded blow from his Father. It is insignificant. 

Yet even now he can’t bring himself to speak. No, he does not want Dean’s gratitude, yet he does not want to give up his secret either. Reason comes to the fore belatedly; another Lutecia could show up one day - someone a little smarter who would attempt to use divination or some magic trick to obtain that secret word, that intangible proof, and then Castiel would need his knowledge to counter it. It’s a perfectly valid reason, it makes sense, but it’s not at all what moves Castiel to remain silent now. No. Just like a gold coin still hanging around his neck - a coin returned to him on that night ten years ago when two bodies became one, never to truly sunder - this knowledge belongs to him, it is precious and not to be deliberately thrown away even if he will never, ever need it and will certainly never use it in this lifetime.

All this winds its way through his mind in a few minutes, a few minutes in which Dean has been exceptionally silent.

“Sammy drove me crazy for years.”

“What?”

“He admits he doesn’t need to know - _I_ know this watchword, that’s what matters - but he just _wants to know!_ ” Dean does a rather unkind yet quite evocative imitation of his brother’s whining sour-vinegar expression, and Castiel can’t help a snort.

“Bobby tried to get me to tell him too. His reason is more rational: if I get hit in the head and forget, somebody else should know as a caution. Seems a stretch, but I do get hit in the head a good deal.”

“I always tell you to be more careful and wear a helmet,” Castiel grouses.

“A lot of other people - friends, courtiers, hopeful swains and ladies - have asked me over the years. Some want it as a token of friendship and trust, others as a dare. And some, like Sammy, just because they want to _know,_ because for them this whole affair is nothing but a story, and a story needs a resolution, a proper end.”

The fire crackles. The snow falls a little heavier now, a sort of non-noise that muffles any others.

“You’re the only one who’s never asked. To the point you’ll sprint off into the night rather than hear it.”

Castiel doesn't answer, doesn't try to think up excuses. He’s certainly not going to lie to his heart’s match. He doesn’t say anything. There’s a kind of acceptance in his silence. If Dean confides in him, if he confides in his lover Castiel as a proof of ultimate trust, well, the knowledge of what really transpired will still be in the angel’s mind and heart, it won’t change anything truly. It’s not a problem, though Castiel won’t go courting the revelation either.

“Yep,” says Dean, and pokes the fire with a stick.

Nothing for a long minute.

“Might not have been a healer at all.”

Castiel looks at him interrogatively.

“Might have been, I dunno, a holy man who came out of nowhere to pray for my safety in the midst of all that death. Maybe it was a miracle.”

Castiel opens his mouth to say that there aren’t any of those anymore.

Then he catches himself, because an angel who falls from grace for a mortal at just the right time and is willing to sacrifice an eons-long existence in the blink of an eye for a man he’s met once, lifting him from perdition… for two hearts to then meet and twine and bind for eternity...It’s not a miracle, there’s a sound chain of events that explains every step of the way rationally, yet ‘miracle’ is still what it sounds like when you think of it.

“In which case it could have been anybody, could be dead, or gone, or they just don’t mind staying a mystery, because who would be bold enough to claim the merit for a miracle?”

“More importantly, miracles are not known to happen twice, so please be careful in the future,” grumbles Castiel, remembering some of the highlights of their recent attack on a village of monstrous human-eating hags that ended with their separation from the Hunters and this lonely trudge through snow-bound mountains. Their friends are fine, along with their young squire, Jack, who everybody knows is Dean and Castiel’s adopted son even if nobody ever says it; he and the others made it out of the pass before the avalanche caused by the magical battle snowed it under, only Dean and Castiel got caught on the wrong side. So the Hunters did what they were trained to under Benny’s leadership, they retreated in good order and will meet the two of them at their fall-back position at the monastery, assuming the two lovers don’t romantically freeze to death together on the side of this bloody mountain first. 

“I promise to try to be more careful,” says Dean with over-the-top solemnity that makes Castiel want to strongarm him to the ground and rub his face in snow or maybe kiss him senseless or something- “I wouldn't want to throw away the life someone gave me. No that it’s mine to throw away at any rate, right, since I went and gave it to you.”

Castiel wants to do the whole wrestle-to-the-ground-rub-face-in-snow-kissing thing more than ever, but it’s really too cold for that. He can barely feel his fingers anymore, or his face, and his cheeks are probably going to freeze around the embarrassingly tender smile he’s currently sporting...

Dean hops nearer, off his stone and onto Castiel’s fallen log, comically bringing his horse blanket beneath his butt with him. “Speaking of which… my little needle and grapes could really do with a warm caring hand right about now, if they’re not to fall off.”

“Dean!”

“What?”

“We’re- it’s- you’re not seriously-...really?!”

“It’s that or freeze,” says Dean philosophically. “Come on, I don’t think we’ll last the night, we were being too optimistic. Let’s set up a lean-to in these trees, crisscross branches and these blankets for bedding, then cover us and the horses with evergreens. Bundle under every speck of clothes in our bags, as well as our cloaks. That’ll keep us warm.”

“Very well.”

“And then you can take care of my needle.”

Castiel growls.

“I’ll take care of yours. A proper exchange, as these things are measured, I’m sure, though some things can never be truly repaid, and thus must be seen as gifts, not to be questioned. Am I right? Well, I know I'm right. My head’s pretty dense, but some things I can figure out eventually, given a few years.”

“You are talking complete nonsense again,” grumbles Castiel as he takes out his sword and heads to the trees.

He does eventually let Dean persuade him to take care of each other’s needles (it’s too cold to sleep, and as Dean points out, what is there better to do?)

He distantly puzzles about the way Dean phrased those last few words for a while before he decides his lover’s brain was only half thawed at that point and anything he said should be set aside as ultimately unintelligible. 

And life carries on, as it has a habit of doing, without grand demonstrations of faith or waxing lyrical. Over his armor Dean wears an old surcoat of what used to be cotton and velvet, pretty much all changed over for linen in patches by now, but the arm always stays the same, a crudely stitched cream colored cloth tied around the sleeve. Castiel wears an old gold coin around his neck. They don’t need to talk about such things. Years later, semi-retired in an old fort from whence newly trained Hunters come forth to make the world a safer place, many, many years later, it’s no longer truly a secret between them, this knowledge that’s never been shared, even if it’s never really been acknowledged either. It just is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voila. Sorry, no tropey Big Reveal, true, but no life debt, no doubts either, just love and acceptance and bashing demons and monsters side by side for years. Not too bad an ending, I hope...? I think Dean and Cas don't mind it, at any rate. See you for the next fic! Not sure when the next Destiel will be out, not for awhile I imagine, but I do have a romantic comedy in my files that I'd love to push over the finish line one day...


End file.
